


Trials of the El'vhen

by Philosophizes



Series: Wardens of Ferelden [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, But really good at being a mythic hero, Chickens coming home to roost, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Issues, Drama, Family Drama, Gen, If you know some things about mythology..., M/M, Multi, Politics, Watch for warnings, Which brings its own...well, because Wardens get up to shady shit sometimes and Theron is bad at being Arl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-11 06:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 205,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10457271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes
Summary: As the growing pains of Ferelden's revitalization and the Dalish's adjustment to a centralized civilization, a special court season in Denerim and the decimation of Clan Sabrae present more obstacles than anticipated. Zevran and Theron may have reunited and set a date to marry, but tension between peoples is never easy to navigate, and it may be that things must fall apart before they can be properly built- in more places than one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So some blanket content warnings carry over from _Shards of Antiva_ , and others are specific to this story. None of it's as extensive as in _Shards_ , but we're still dealing with some stuff, and in particular more Crows:
> 
> -torture  
> -off-screen sexual exploitation  
> -off-screen sexual abuse/rape (adult and child)  
> -description of child abuse (mental, emotional, physical)  
> -discussion of suicide and suicidal thoughts  
> -alcohol as coping mechanism

It was one week before Wintersend and the sun hadn’t set yet so they weren’t _actually_ late. Anora had only said that they had to be _in_ Denerim one week before, nothing more.

And here they were. They’d just passed under the city gates. Success.

They rode up through the city, and Theron had to reflect, again, upon what a different experience this was for him. The majority of his memories of Denerim were still during the Blight, coming in on foot with Alistair and Zevran and Morrigan and the others, being stared at and even in some cases having their coin turned down, not being hailed by the city guard and _recognized,_ even in the almost-dark of the late evening.

He started leading them to the bridge that would take them over the Drakon River and to the road to the West Market, then beyond that to the main bridge crossing _back_ over this side of the river in the main city, but Zevran veered off to the right once they’d cleared the gates, and his mother followed him, her halla glowing in the torchlight of the gate square. Theron turned his horse to catch up with Zevran.

“Where are we-”

“Your Arlship,” a guard said, saluting and then bowing deferentially. Zevran had led them to a side gate, a little thing, big enough for some carts and a couple of riders. This was to a barracks or guard storage or something, wasn’t it? “Warden-Commander. Welcome back to Denerim.”

The guards on the gate opened it for them, and it _wasn’t_ a barracks, it was a very steep road and a part of the city Theron was pretty sure he’d never been in.

Nehna’s halla fared the best on the incline, pulling ahead of the horses and rounding the sharp bend in the road long before any of the rest of them had reached it. It was only once the rest of them had come around that corner and urged the horses up the last stretch of road that Theron recognized where they were – this was the wide avenue that cut off the Palace District from the rest of the city, and served as the access road for Fort Drakon. The tower and the walls loomed over the city on their right, ten or fifteen minutes uphill. In front of them were the old city walls, low and ancient, the black marble the Tevinter Imperium had imported from Kirkwall many Ages ago sinking under its own weight into the bedrock of Denerim.

Here was a set of gates, and more guards who recognized him on sight and let them pass. Theron was more sure of himself, here - there was only one road in front of them and it curved towards the palace. He knew how to get to the estate, from the palace.

A half of an hour later, they’d arrived at the estate. Kallian, Fenris, and the Wardens Nathaniel had sent met them at the gates, at the front of the household servants who hadn’t yet been dismissed for the night. The servants and Kallian all bowed or curtsied; the Wardens saluted.

“Tell Shianni they’re dismissed,” Zevran told him quietly, in El’vhen, when he sat there on his horse a moment too long, trying to figure out how to make everyone stop.

Theron was pretty sure he fumbled that, because he’d been around Damien for long enough now to be able to feel the change in atmosphere around the man when he disapproved of something that had just happened. But the servants stopped bowing and curtsying and went back to their actual work. Someone came and took the horses, and tried to take the halla, but Nehna glowered at the elven man who tried to take his reins from her and rode off to the stables herself.

Shianni was waiting for them in the entrance hall, and curtsied at him again.

“Lady Amell and her daughter are in the in-law’s suite, Your Arlship,” she told him, and kept an ear on what she was saying while he looked over the murals and mosaics he’d commissioned. They weren’t very well lit right now, but from what he could see, he was pleased. “I can put Mistress and Serrah Daganini into the personal servant’s quarters, if it would please you?”

Those were rooms he actually knew. They were some of the first rooms you passed when you got to the second floor - one for the Arl’s valet or manservant, and one for the Arlessa’s personal lady’s maid or lady companion.

“That’s good,” he told Shianni. “Tanis, is Nehna going to want to stay with you?”

“Likely so, Your Arlship.”

They were going to have to work something out, for this. They were family, titles weren’t supposed to hold between family.

“Nehna Sora Revasina is the Dalish woman who came with us, Shianni,” Theron said. “She’s Zevran’s mother. When she comes back from the stables ask her if she wants to be in with Tanis or have her own room.”

“Yes, Your Arlship,” Shianni said, doing a bad job of hiding her curiosity about the subject. “What about Lord-Captain Mac Maric and…”

She was looking at Zevran. Well- she’d know _his_ title, being Arl, and Kallian could have told her Alistair’s.

Did Zevran get a special title, being his fiancé? Or was that only after they’d gotten married, that he got called anything else?

“Zevran Revasina, Mistress Chamberlain,” Zevran answered for her. Good, _someone_ knew what was supposed to be going on. “A pleasure to meet you again. How goes laundry, these days?”

She laughed, more a snort, and for a moment it was the Blight year again, and he and Zevran had snuck into the Denerim alienage after-hours to dispense charity in the wake of the Tevene slavers masquerading as healers.

“The laundry is _great,_ ” Shianni said. “Rooms in the guest suites for you and the Lord-Captain, Messere Revasina?”

“No, Zevran’s rooming with me,” Theron told her. “We’re getting married.”

“Oh! Blessings upon your union, Your Arlship. But - are you sure you don’t want the Arlessa’s suite?”

“No?” Theron said. “We’re getting married? We sleep together?”

“Could you put the children in the Arlessa’s suite, Mistress Tabris?” Zevran asked. Oh, he was being sidelined - all right. “This is Tiar and Diego - they are my responsibility.”

“As you wish, Messere Revasina.”

From there it was simple enough. Shianni brought them all upstairs and settled them – Damien and Tanis first, in their rooms, then Tiar and Diego a little further down the hall in the Arlessa’s suite, the rooms that Theron and Alistair had usually taken whenever they’d had to come to Denerim, rather than needlessly opening up the rest of the rooms.

But the entire upstairs had been opened now, and cleaned, and it felt strange. Alistair ducked off towards the guest rooms to pick one for himself without being escorted, and Theron tried to dismiss Shianni, except that Zevran pointed out to him that she was the one with the keys. She came with them down the hallway around the Arlessa’s suite to Theron’s office, and unlocked the two layers of hallway doors between his office and his reception room and suite.

She formally handed him what she said was the only other copy of the keys to the Arlessa’s suite, his suite, and his office. If the servants came up to service the rooms or deliver things to him and found the doors locked, they would come back later or ask for him to open them. This was to assure his privacy.

It seemed like a reasonable system, but all he really wanted to do was clean up a little and go to bed. They’d been pushing themselves, riding, to make it within the slightly-less-than-three days they’d been left to get to Denerim once he’d returned to the Vigil with Nehna. Morrigan had made the last-minute decision to stay behind with to Kieran, to wait with Merrill and Tamlen and Marian for Oghren to return from Antiva with the eluvian, and then accompany it south to Hallarenis’haminathe. She’d promised to return north for the winter, and would meet them in Vigil’s Keep once court season was over.

Morrigan had said she’d found the thought of straining the welcome and political resources of the capital to be too much. If it had just been her, she would have come and ignored the Templars with all the disdain she felt for them.

But with Kieran…

Theron couldn’t fault her for this. It _would_ be safer for their son to be in Hallarenis’haminathe rather than in Denerim, where the Chantry could kick up a fuss over a mage child outside the Circles and send Templars to harass them. With Grand Cleric Candide’s threats, no matter how unfulfilled, it wasn’t worth risking.

Or that was what Nathaniel and Zevran had said. Theron could have convinced himself that Nathaniel was just worrying, but he couldn’t ignore Zevran.

But he _missed_ them, and it had only been three days. Kieran would make all these court parties more tolerable, and Morrigan could have made snide comments.

He and Zevran started getting ready for the night without comment to each other. One nice thing about this, as opposed to an inn, was that the majority of their things had been sent here ahead of them and were already put away and waiting. This had made Vigil’s Keep a little awkward, but it made these unfamiliar rooms a little more comfortable.

Once they’d passed the point of washing faces and hands to get road dust off, Theron stopped pretending nothing was going on and spoke up.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“You punched my mother,” Zevran reminded him.

“She punched me _first._ ”

“Which does not mean that you were justified in hitting her _back._ ”

_“She said-”_

“I do not _care_ what she said, you are _going_ to apologize to her.”

“She should apologize to _you._ ”

“She needs to do no such thing,” Zevran said, and went to huddle under the blankets. “Good _night._ ”

So that was it, for this evening. It had been three days of this, and _fine,_ he’d go tell Nehna he was sorry for hitting her in the morning, if it would stop this.

“Good night, _‘ma vhenan._ ”

* * *

The nightmares had returned, in fits and starts, once they’d left Antiva. They’d been back on the road but gone at the Vigil, and then back again on the road.

Zevran had been sort of hoping that travel was what caused them, now, but he woke up around false dawn when the servants started arriving with swiftly-fading memories of his mother-

Apparently distance was as much an obstacle for spirits as it was for mortals. No Justice or Freedom here, to ensure that he slept well.

He looked over at Theron, still asleep next to him, and got out of bed. He grabbed clothes for the day and got dressed in the outer reception room to keep from waking Theron, and took a coat, gloves, and his blades. There were Wardens here - someone else would be up and practicing.

But the first people he ran into were the children. Tiar was poking around the hallways and doorways suspiciously, and Diego was playing lookout while she tried to pick a lock.

Zevran stopped momentarily far down the hall so Diego could notice him and alert Tiar without startling her.

“Those are the Amells’ rooms, I believe,” he told her quietly. mindful of the early morning silence. “Shall we see about breakfast, before the kitchens become _too_ busy?”

Even with the hour, they were _very_ busy. The building wasn’t stifling yet, but that was only because the back door was propped open, spilling heat into the cold air outside. The kitchen was busy, and loud, and a bit crowded, and Zevran put a discreet, steadying hand on Tiar’s back as Diego shrank against his side.

Zevran got them both sat by the stew fire and sighed in resignation when he was directed to the pantry and cellar and found that the majority of choices were Fereldan fruit preserves.

He returned to the children with a new bottle of vodka, an unopened jar of cherry preserves, and rolls right out of the oven.

Tiar pulled a face at the vodka.

“I am going to show you how to drink it the Fereldan way, so you do not make mistakes with it again,” he told her. “I personally find it somewhat distasteful, but it is worth knowing.”

One of the kitchen servants brought cups and knives and a pitcher of water, and Zevran got him to bring three bowls of the kitchen stew as well.

“The preserves go on the rolls,” he told the children, cracking the wax seal on the jar and opening it for them. “The only thing Fereldans love more than sweet things are their mabari, so be mindful of how much you can tolerate at once. Also do not expect spices. Not even mild things. Perhaps a pinch of black pepper. They season with herbs, here.”

The bread, in true Fereldan fashion, was sweet as well. The children devoured bread and fruit, and Zevran gently warned them away from eating too much at once, and suggested that they intersperse it with the stew to keep their stomachs settled.

Zevran hadn’t gotten around to showing them how to do vodka when Alistair turned up. The kitchen staff had clearly learned from the other Wardens who had arrived before them - he got a full platter with a lot of everything, and joined them by the fire.

“ _Nice,_ vodka for breakfast,” he said, seeing the unopened bottle still sitting there. “What’s the occasion?”

“Simply explaining to the children how everyone was _expecting_ them to be drinking this.”

“Give it here, then.”

Zevran handed him the bottle and Alistair flipped off the metal clamp and stopper on the top, sniffing it delicately to make sure it had kept properly.

“There are three ways to do this,” he said. “First way first, the way the Alamarri intended and the way Andraste drank it - pure and straight.”

He poured everyone a mouthful or so at the bottom of their glasses.

“No, no - _toast,_ ” he insisted, when Diego went to drink his right away. “Cups up, come on.”

The children raised their cups uncertainly.

“To getting here _technically_ on time, in spite of Theron,” he declared, and drank.

“That was what you were expecting me to say when you saw the vodka, yes?” Zevran asked, once he’d downed his.

“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to celebrate your victories where you find them. Eat something before I show you the second way.”

The second way to drink vodka was to plunk a spoonful of fruit preserves into a cup and pour vodka over it. Zevran was not convinced that it could be called _‘drinking’_ when you had to chew. But the third way was decent, and what he’d been planning on showing the children - a certain small fraction of vodka, depending on the size of your cup, and then fill the rest with boiled and cooled water.

“And that’s how you have it with breakfast, unless it’s a festival day,” Alistair finished his demonstration with, and then got busy parceling out vodka to the Wardens who were showing up, and Kallian and Fenris, because once you’d opened a bottle you weren’t supposed to leave it unfinished.

He didn’t offer Theron any and Theron didn’t ask, only walked right up to Zevran and hugged him, tightly.

“What’s this?”

“I woke up and you weren’t _there,_ ” Theron said quietly.

Oh.

“Apologies, _amora._ ”

It was past dawn by the time the Wardens and warriors were all up and done with breakfast. There was only time for a quick bit of sparring, for him and Theron, because they had to be _busy._

But Zevran was determined to make the best of it. He and the children followed the others out to the corner of the gardens, tucked against a wall, that the others had claimed for their practice area when they’d arrived. Zevran found Diego a tree to perch in and Tiar a clear space a little ways away to shadow fence, and then turned back to the others.

Kallian against Fenris was expected, but Theron wasn’t up against Alistair. He’d taken Andreas, and Lockhard and Alistair-

He grinned, broadly, and interrupted them.

“Was that _really_ necessary?” Alistair grumbled from his new spot on the ground.

“First longer hair and that scruffy growth on your face you call a beard-”

“It is _not ‘scruffy’_ -  I _knew_ we were coming to court so I’ve been filling this out all winter. I figured I should _look_ Fereldan-”

“-and now dual-wielding _swords!_ I eagerly await your next surprise for me, my friend.”

“Maybe my next surprise will be surprising _you._ ”

“You would have to be _very_ good to manage that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alistair grumbled, and got up. “Well, you _watch._ Fifteen-year-old me never thought I was going to be good at anything, and look at me!”

“Happily.”

“Shut up, you’re _engaged,_ ” Alistair said, turning red anyway.

“And this means I must deny what I see?” he asked. “You are a handsome man and Fereldan standards flatter you. You look better with the hair and yes, the beard. Even if I am struck with the urge, every time I see you, to attempt fluffing it.”

“What the hell, Zev.”

Zevran reached up and rubbed at Alistair’s beard with his hands, and sighed dramatically.

“No fluff whatsoever! You disappoint me, Alistair, should not a proper Fereldan man be mistaken for a mabari?”

“Well _you’re_ in a form, this morning,” Alistair said, swatting his hands away. He was still blushing.

“I am putting off the rest of the day for a little while longer,” Zevran admitted. “I must speak with Shianni and Leandra and it will be rush rush rush to locate tailors who are not busy and someone who can speak on the subject of decent merchant factors in Antiva. I may have to ask Fergus.”

“You need tailors?”

“ _We_ need tailors,” he corrected Alistair. “Theron has not stood still long enough since I left to have _any_ appropriate clothes made, and so neither have you. And I of course did not expect to _be_ here. You and Theron may be forced to wear your Warden armor at your first day of court.”

“I have _no_ problem with that.”

“Of course you do not,” Zevran said, and patted him before stepping aside to let him get back to his sparring - well, training, because he was very clearly not proficient at even the basics at dual-wielding yet. “I do not have time now, but in a few weeks, shall I assist in your martial endeavors?”

“I don’t know, you going to sneak up on me and dump me in the dirt the whole time, or am I going to get _actual_ help?”

“Actual help, of course. And I will make it fun. I promise.”

* * *

They were summoned to meet Anora around mid-morning. Zevran had been trying to settle him in to look over the pile of papers he’d brought with them from Nathaniel and Delilah, but this was the Queen and therefore more important and therefore he didn’t have to look at any of that yet.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know the paperwork was _important._ He’d been an Arl for three years and he _knew_ that. He knew that there were things that the Arl had to do and that there were things that, at the very least, needed his approval.

But most of the human nobility got along just fine by leaving the majority of their work to their Seneschals or oldest child or assorted underlings. The country just seemed to get on by itself, and _it_ was still functioning.

And Theron had the Wardens to manage. And Nathaniel had been born to this job. And whenever he looked at anything that wasn’t the most urgent and absolutely necessary paperwork he got nervous because an arling was a _lot_ of responsibility and he’d never forgotten what he’d heard in the wake of Amaranthine, in the short time before he’d gone south and ultimately ended up in the Deep Roads, about whether or not it had been the right decision, and all those people _dead…_

Theron wasn’t a stranger to responsibility. He’d been meant to have it in Sabrae. But responsibility for a clan was _different,_ smaller, intimate, an actual community where you could know everyone and have a decent chance of knowing all the facets of an issue and give the advice and make the choices that meant the clan stayed safe and harmonious.

He didn’t know everyone in the arling and _couldn’t_ know everyone in the arling and how was he supposed to make decisions if he wasn’t dealing with _people,_ but lists of numbers and second- or third-hand descriptions and opinions he had no way to vet because he didn’t _know_ anything about how much people could afford for taxes or what the most efficient method of structuring a market was.

Nathaniel could make decisions based on numbers so Nathaniel got the paperwork and Theron took the Wardens and turned up to pass judgements in court when Nathaniel told him to, which was one of the only parts of the Arl business he felt qualified for. That was people.

But Zevran was conspiring with Nathaniel and Delilah and he wasn’t allowed to do that any longer, which was unfair, it was a system that _worked_ and who decided to put _all_ the formal power in the hands of _one person;_ that was too much, the clans had a _reasonable_ system of task division and anything else was _far too much-_

Meeting with Anora was easier. Theron knew what she wanted. It would be about chaperoning her husband candidates.

Fergus was already there and seated when they arrived. Anora frowned at them - well, him.

“ _Last evening_ was by _no means_ an appropriate time to arrive. Where have you _been?_ ”

“In the south mostly,” Theron said. “You said you’d see us the week before Wintersend, so here we are.”

The frown turned into a scowl.

“Arl Mahariel, _this meeting_ was set for _this week._ I did _not_ say that you should _arrive_ at nearly the end of the season!”

“Isn’t it starting now?”

“The winter season of court _started,_ ” Anora told him nastily. “At _Satinalia. As it always has._ ”

“Arl Mallory was at Ashengard Keep in Firstfall,” Theron countered.

“ _Arl Mallory asked. She_ was where she _needed_  to be.”

 _He’d_ needed to be in Hallarenis’haminathe.    

“There have been _developments_ in our foreign guests for this season,” she told them, after they’d all sat. “Unfortunately, Sebastian Vael, who has been recently disinvested from his position in the Chantry for his actions, was not the last surprise of the season.”

Anora gave him and Alistair a pointed look.  

“Quite unexpectedly,” she continued. “We have found ourselves visited by Prince Estefan Fulgendez of Antiva.”

Well that was interesting?

“Are you considering...?” Alistair asked.

“No,” Anora said. “He is far too old, and his commitment to his elven mistress has been a perennial favorite of court gossip across Thedas since they left Antiva over a decade ago. They have been guests of foreign courts ever since, first in Nevarra and then in Orlais. It seems that it is _our_ turn now.”

They’d picked good timing for it. He was a prince of Antiva and probably hip-deep in Crows, but they weren’t much of a threat at the moment. And if nothing else, _‘commitment to his elven mistress’_ was a good sign. Theron found himself looking forward to talking to her, whoever she was.

“But there _is_ the matter of our marriages.”

Oh!

“I didn’t know you were getting married too,” Theron told Fergus. “Congratulations. Ours is at the end of next winter, when’s yours?”

“I-” Fergus said, taken aback. “ _No,_ I- ah- the two of you?”

The way Fergus was looking at him and Alistair made Theron think that something had gotten misunderstood.

“Zevran and I, yes,” he said, and sure enough Fergus seemed less surprised. “Who are you marrying?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“What?" Alistair asked.

“I am _speaking_ ,” Anora said. “Of the fact that our nobility has been almost annihilated by the Blight, and we cannot _afford_ to continue as we have. The stability and sovereignty of Ferelden _must_ be protected. Bannorns may be sold to those who prove that they can care for them, but it has not been an _unvetted_ process. We can lose _no more families._ Those who do not have legal heirs are required to have one by the end of this season, which may be fulfilled, as His Grace here is planning, by remarriage. Which you would _know,_ if you had  _been here on time._ ”

He hadn't  _realized._

“I personally have had some time to think on my options, and I believe I will be able to come to a decision soon,” she continued. “I expect others to, as well. If at all possible, it would be ideal if the engagements were finalized before or during the same time as the selling of the bannorns.”

“You can just _decide_ that it has to happen?” Alistair said, tone starting to tend towards anxious. “If he doesn’t _want_ to-”

“He is a subject of mine, Alistair Mac Maric, and he _will_ provide for the future of his teyrnir, and he has _chosen_ to search for a new spouse.”

“But do you _really-_ ”

“Alistair Mac Maric I am not about to order _you_ to get married,” Anora cut him off, and Alistair relaxed. He’d been worried about that? “You _have_ formally renounced your claim to the throne but there is no point in providing _opportunity. I_ would rather order you to never procreate, and would but for Arl Eamon’s prattling!”

“He wants me to have kids?”

“He attempted to have you included in the marriage requirement.”

“No one ever asked _me!_ ”

“You _would_ have been asked if you had been able to be _located_ over this winter,” Anora shot back. “And _perhaps_ Arl Eamon would not have made a decision on your behalf that you cared for if you or the Arl-Commander ever _spoke to anyone!_ ”

He was not involved in this. When someone came to talk to him, he talked to them. He’d always come to Denerim when Anora had sent a message asking him to come.

“I talk to lots of people,” Theron told her.

“Not the _right_ people,” Anora said. “I must say, Arl-Commander, that you were to be exempt from the orders of matrimony, but I find myself quite relieved to hear that Zevran Arainai-”

“Revasina,” Theron corrected her. “He’s not a Crow any longer.”

“-will _finally_ be bonded to you and have some official say in your activities.”

That was _rude._

“He always has, Your Royal Highness,” Theron said. “But thank you for your interest in our marriage. We’re happy with it as well.”

“And this meeting is _dismissed,_ ” she said, voice cold. “As the majority of the business this meeting had been _planned_ for did not occur due to  _tardiness._ I shall see you all in court at Wintersend for the formal introductions to our new guests. _On time._ ”

And now he had to go do paperwork. Ten or so minutes’ walk to the palace, ten minutes back, and this meeting hadn’t been very long - he could have wished it would take up more time, so he wouldn’t have to be faced with paperwork. But at least he'd be away from this.

“Not _you,_ Arl-Commander,” the Queen ordered. “I require _explanations_ from you.”

* * *

Theron and Alistair were out on the Queen’s orders, so that limited what he could do a bit. Not too much - but a little.

First he found Leandra Amell, and asked how she and Bethany were getting along. Leandra assured him that they were fine, and very eagerly awaiting Wintersend, and Bethany was so _pleased_ to have an opportunity to be a lady at court, and attend the parties; she’d always wanted this and missed it in Kirkwall.

Tailors and seamstresses? Why yes, they’d had to rush, but they had managed to secure one, and their own maid had skill enough with needle and cloth if they needed things altered, though the household servants had been able to give recommendations from where other noble families usually went. No, they hadn’t had a particular problem with finding anyone too busy to take more orders and yes, the dresses had come in on time and while they _were_ waiting for more they had enough for the first few days.

 Zevran left with a list of tailors and went to ask Shianni if she knew anything about them. Shianni was able to give him more information, and gave him a quick briefing on how the household was functioning while he wrote a note to be delivered to Fergus asking about merchant factors in Antiva and a short letter to the tailor’s he thought would be their best choice with preliminary measurements, colors, and styles for the three of them, ending with a request for a quote.

“Is there anything that Theron needs to address?” he asked, once servants had been dispatched with the note and letter.

“I’d like to talk to him about the household budget.”

“I will make sure he speaks with you about it, then.”

“One of the Dalish crafters is still here and wants to speak to him, too,” Shianni told him. She was a little nervous about this - why? “Irothal Blartera Nu’nin.”

“Is there a problem with the work?”

“No,” Shianni said. “He’s been staying in the alienage with the Hahren since the Ladies Amell arrived, but I can bring him up here with me in a couple days if the Arl has time to speak with him.”

“I think that would be ideal, and I do not see why he would not. Now, I must give you some warnings about the children we have brought-”

Shianni seemed to take his warnings about the children’s jumpiness and need for privacy in stride, and Zevran got a promise that issues with them in the kitchen would come to him rather than fester within the staff.

Children, Theron’s paperwork, tailor, merchant factor, staff - he was forgetting something.

What was he forgetting?

He took a walk around the grounds to refamiliarize himself with their layout while he tried to remember, which was how he came to be by the entrance gate when Alistair got back from the palace.

“Where is Theron?”

“Anora kept him,” Alistair said. “I think she got fed up with him.”

They had been here less than _one day,_ they were not supposed to have run into politics this _early._

“But _otherwise_ everything is fine?” he asked. “She did not call you to tell you that the country is falling apart or the Freemen are fomenting a rebellion or any such crisis?”

“She just wanted to talk about how things were going and the new people at court.”

“And they are?”

“The Prince of Starkhaven or something-”

 _‘Or something’_. Well _that_ was unhelpful. He would have to talk to Tanis.

“-and one of the Princes of Antiva is here, Anora didn't seem happy about it.”

“Is the other man the Prince of Starkhaven or no, and _which_ Prince of Antiva?” Zevran asked.

“It guess he wasn’t _the_ Prince of Starkhaven because he was in the Chantry," Alistair admitted. "She said he got kicked out for something that happened in Jainen.”

“Sebastian Vael, then. You really should learn what happened with Kirkwall while you were away this winter, people will be talking about it still. And the Antivan?”

“Estefan Fulgendez.”

That was a name he’d never wanted to hear again. Not in this context, not near _him,_ not anywhere where they could cross paths with each other- this was a _disaster,_ there was no way that this would end well- how long had he been here? Who had he talked to? Was it anyone who knew _his_ name, who could name his House? Did Prince Estefan know? Had- he _had_ to know, the way that Rinna had talked about her father, the few times she had-

_“-Zev!”_

“ _Minu faellaveri, suni mataranni-_ ”

This was Denerim; that had been almost six years ago now.

“-no, apologies, I lost myself for a moment.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Alistair said. “You need to sit down? Who do we need to fight?”

 _“No one,”_ Zevran said quickly. “You will absolutely not fight _anyone,_ Alistair, are you listening to me? _No one._ This is entirely my problem, I will handle it myself-”

Estefan Fulgendez. _Prince Estefan._

Two weeks ago he’d walked away from Antiva, and it had _followed him home._

“Where are you going?”

“I must speak with the Queen _immediately._ ”

* * *

It had been politically expedient to give Amaranthine to the Wardens. The Guerrins, under no circumstances, needed any more power than they already had. Fergus Cousland could have taken it, except for the fact that had been in the depths of his grief at the time. Arl Mallory had been too far away, and she hadn’t known any of the surviving Banns well enough to seriously consider promoting one of them. _She_ would have taken it, except she’d anticipating the grumbling the executions she’d been about to order would cause - and the Wardens’ headquarters under Commander Duncan had been right in Denerim. Far too close, for a total unknown who’d suddenly secured her throne and won himself the acclaim of the country.

And _far_ too close for Cailan’s bastard half-brother, so recently a rival for her position, however unwilling. He was young and impressionable, and in the pocket of a man who was quietly displeased about her ascension.

She still should have given Amaranthine to Alfstanna Eremon. Andraste’s flames- if she’d been going to promote an elf, she should have given it to _Erlina!_

It was a perpetual mystery to Anora how the Arling of Amaranthine continued to function, given the general unsuitability of its current Arl to _rule._ She suspected Nathaniel Howe had a lot to do with it. She should ask Erlina to have her people look into it.

Fergus and Alistair left. This was as private as they ever would be.

“Are you an _idiot_ or do you feel yourself _above_ all this?” she demanded.

_“Excuse me?”_

“ _Four years_ you have had Amaranthine, _Arl-Commander,_ ” Anora reminded him, tone even colder than she’d originally thought to make it. He had been quietly insolent the entire meeting, but _this_ was outright _disrespect._ “Have you not learned how to execute your duty because you are _too stupid_ to learn what it entails or because you think that you do not _need_ to do them?”

“Amaranthine is running fine!”

“And by the Maker’s will _alone,_ it seems, because you are _never there!_ ”

“I’ve been there for longer than I’ve been away from it.”

“ _Eight months_ after the burning of Amaranthine; and the arling fell to an _Orlesian_ who was even _less_ _interested_ in his stewardship than _you_ are! _Five months_ beginning last Kingsway! _Both_ times with little to no contact and with no one being entirely certain _where_ you were! You have _responsibilities!_ ”

“I was in Amaranthine for all of 9:34.”

“Oh yes, _one full year!_ ” Anora exclaimed. “What _devotion_ to _duty!_ ”

He bristled. She’d never seen him do that before. Her memories of him were as a steady and unassuming Warden fugitive, focused and seemingly unmoved while agreeing to support her queenship and executing her father alike; and as a quiet Arl with a grave expression who supported her without question, protest, or suggestion.  

“Are the ports of Amaranthine not docking enough merchant ships?” he demanded. “Are the fields not yielding enough amaranth dye to satisfy demand? Are the mines not producing enough? There are jobs and the farmers aren’t starving and there aren’t any darkspawn on the surface and it’s mostly free of bandits and the taxes are paid and delivered - I have _done my duty!_ ”

 _“You have **not!** ” _she told him. “The day-to-day functioning of your lands is the province of your stewards and your alieged lords - of whom you currently have but _one_ of _six!_ \- and your Seneschal! _Your_ duty is of _politics,_ and the support of the country!”

“I have the Wardens!”

“And the Blight is five years gone!”

“And that farmland you’re trying to sell in the Bannorn is still suffering the effects!”

“So you _have_ been paying attention,” Anora said, and settled back in her chair. “To _something,_ at least.”

“I _have_ been paying attention!”

As has been so _clearly_ demonstrated by your timely presence at court,” she snapped. “Perhaps, then, you can accomplish _this_ : Then tell me what the political factions of Ferelden are, and who leads them. Can you explain how I am related to Fergus, how both of us are related to Arl Bryland, and how all _three_ of us are related to the Empress of Orlais? Speaking of Orlais, who _is_ the Orlesian ambassador to our court? Perhaps the ambassador from Antiva is an easier question? Or who the noble families who used to occupy the empty bannorns were? Or the names of every noble who lost their life during the Blight, and how they are related to those who still live, and who misses them?”

His jaw was set, and he stayed silent in the brief pause she gave him.

“ _Can_ you hold a conversation with our foreign guests? Do you know how the Orlesian nobility and court function? Have you any conception of relationships between the cities of the Free Marches? _Why_ Prince Baldewin is an only child? And, _most_ importantly-”

She leaned forward.

_“-what you thought you were **doing** in Antiva City!”   _

He was glaring. Another new thing. She should have ordered him to come to court and _stay_ sooner- then she’d know the why and the when of this change.

“I was sent a letter from the Warden-Commander of Antiva,” he told her, and the words were filled with a surprising amount of venom. “He said that a Crow had come telling a tale of darkspawn in Rialto, and claimed familiarity with Ferelden as grounds for his knowledge. We went to make sure he was all right, and we landed in Antiva City only to find that the Wardens of Antiva had given Zevran to the Crows. What I was _doing_ was _saving_ the man I love from being _tortured to death!_ ”

“What you were _doing_ was causing an international _incident!_ ”

“If you’re trying to ask me for an apology, I am _not_ giving one! I will _not_ apologize for this!”

 _Like you’ve never apologized for killing my father after I asked you to spare him?_ she almost shot back, but held her tongue - on _that._

“If you cannot refrain from causing us hardship,” Anora told him. “Then perhaps you should not _be_ in a position to be construed as a representative of our country and my authority when you are merely acting on your own whims.”

“It was not a _whim!_ ”

“And I am becoming less convinced that you should be allowed to remain Arl.”

It was as good as if she’d slapped him across the face, and she gave herself a moment to savor the look of absolute incredulity on his face.

It was an empty threat, of course; but he was too politically inept to realize that.

He was still too popular to simply dispose of, and despite everything, under his authority Amaranthine _had_ flourished, and was the only part of the country that had. Besides that, removing him would be a dangerous business - Alistair was a threat under Eamon Guerrin’s influence but he was _far_ more loyal to the man in front of her than the one who kept making veiled comments about her lack of royal blood, and the Commander’s damnable penchant for recruiting amongst the outcast and the discarded had made the rest of his Wardens far too devoted to be swayed away from him. If he was removed from his position, they would be out for blood no matter what their Commander said on the matter. Half a hundred angry Grey Wardens was not something she needed.

Besides the Wardens, removing him would remove her guaranteed support from Amaranthine. She could give it to Fergus, but there was only so much she could do before cries of favoritism became too loud. She’d already resurrected the Edgehall title for Alfstanna Eremon, and there was no one else who she trusted enough to grant an entire Arling. Amaranthine and it’s Arl had also turned into something of an ideal for the elves of Ferelden, and while the ongoing migration of city elves to Amaranthine _was_ a labor problem, alienage unrest across the country would be a worse one. And there was no telling what the southern border would turn into, if the Dalish got up to something and she didn’t have someone on hand to send. She had no idea what was going on in Ostagar as it was - Erlina had had _no_ luck placing or hiring informants. The ones who hadn’t be outright turned away or chased out for being human or the wrong sort of elf, or left themselves in frustration, had yet to be heard from. It had been three years, for some of them.

And beyond immediate politics, if she got rid of the Arl-Commander she would have to deal with the loss of his fiancé. Zevran Arainai - Revasina, very well, she would have to have Erlina look into that change, as well- was _far_ better company than the man he was going to marry, and much more useful. His knowledge had so far proven to be an excellent resource.

A man who’d broken into Fort Drakon to rescue someone he’d been hired to kill was better kept close. He was an assassin, a Crow by training, and having a friendly one was worth putting up with the Arl-Commander. Political favors were cheaper than coin, if she ever had need of his particular skills, especially when the state of the treasury was tightly-kept secret.

Perhaps she would give a dispensation so that the _competent_ half of this couple could actually wield political power. She would have to see.

 There was a knock on the door - Erlina’s, in the pattern unique to her.

“Come in,” Anora called.

Erlina opened the door, and well, look who it was.

“A pleasure to return to your presence, Your Royal Highness,” Zevran greeted her, and bowed elegantly over her proffered hand, because _he_ had _manners._

“My congratulations upon your betrothal.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

“You will be a welcome addition to our nobility,” she told him. “You could not be better placed than at the side of our Warden-Commander.”

“I would extend my most sincere apologies upon his behalf. He can be a handful, I know, and all I can say that he never _means_ to be a complication.”

“Your apologies are appreciated,” Anora said, and wished that he Arl-Commander was capable of noticing something so simple as a _verbal hint._ “But I would appreciate them more from your fiancé.”

Behind him, the Arl-Commander crossed his arms.

“Understandably so.”

“Tell me, Messere Revasina - do _you_ know how I am related to the Empress of Orlais?”

“Your late husband’s great-great-grandfather had a sister who married the then-Teyrn of Highever,” Zevran said, without a single moment’s pause to think on the question. “Her grandson married the sister of the then-Arl of South Reach. The Arl of South Reach, meanwhile, married the bastard half-sister of the Orlesian Imposter King. Meghren Dufayel was the cousin of Prince Reynaud Valmont of Orlais, who was the father of Her Imperial Majesty Celene.” 

Anora met the Arl-Commander’s eyes, and asked Zevran: “And do you know who the ambassadors to the Fereldan court are?”

“The Ambassador from Orlais is Rechard Lécuyer de Sauvon, a minor lord from the north of the country, near the Ander border. From Antiva is Nuncio Opielu Gualtierri of Serrana, from the Gualtierri family of the Nunciate. From Nevarra, Lady Evridice of Tarras Hall, one of the many distant Pentaghast cousins, as has been their custom. Tevinter has sent Lord Mitian Lahria from Imrusael, a non-mage from a relatively undistinguished family. Ansburg-”

“I see you are prepared for court,” she stopped him, and pointed at the Arl-Commander. _“Educate him.”_

“I am doing my best, Your Royal Highness.”  

“Very well. What did you come to see me for? If you are here to retrieve your fiancé, _please,_ take him.”

“I will, but sadly, that is not my reason for seeking some moments of your time today.”

This would be interesting, then.

“Lord-Captain Mac Maric has informed me that Prince Estefan Fulgendez of Antiva is currently visiting court?”

“ _'_ _Residing’_ is a more appropriate term, I believe,” she said. 

“Ah. Well.”

This was going to be interesting, and she was not going to be pleased with it.

“And what is the problem with Prince Estefan?”

“It is entirely a personal complication,” he told her. “From my time with the Crows. I am here to inform you of it before it has time to develop into an issue, for diplomacy’s sake.”

She was not going to be pleased with this, but he was already showing far more consideration than the other man in this room ever had.

“Speak, then.”

“Have you heard of the Azul Treaty, Your Royal Highness?” Zevran asked, and the Arl-Commander was suddenly much more alert than he had been.

“I have not.”

“It was a piece of internal politics for the royal family of Antiva. King Fulgendo gave his third son, Claudio, to the Crows. He rose far in the ranks to one of the most powerful House Masters, and some seventeen years ago he took particular exception to the children of the fifth-eldest.”

“Prince Estefan.”

“Just so. The Azul Treaty between King Fulgendez and the House of Crows gave all of Prince Estefan’s children to the Crows.”

He paused.

“I am not certain how many there were. But the eldest was a woman - a girl, then - named Rinnala.”

The Arl-Commander reached over and gave him his hand to squeeze.

“She came to my old House, and we were placed together as part of a three-person cell. There were some further politics with the Crows, and further meddling by Claudio, and in the end I and the other person in our cell were manipulated into killing her.”

Yes, she didn’t like this at _all._

“It was the reason I accepted a contract so far away from Antiva.”

“And Prince Estefan _knows_ of this?” Anora asked, mapping political fallout in her head, and how much diplomacy might be needed to save this situation.

“I am not certain, but I would not be surprised if this was so. If he does not… Your Royal Highness, it is not something that I feel I can leave be. It is something I wish to make amends for.”

“Even at the cost of a diplomatic incident.”

“Is not _every_ admission of serious wrongdoing is a diplomatic incident?” he asked. “She deserved better, and so did they. Our friend is dead, and recently, so is Claudio. I am the only one left to _make_ these amends.”

She gave the Arl-Commander a look.

“Prince Claudio?”

“He wasn’t a prince,” he said, and his expression - Anora resisted the urge to close her eyes a moment, his obstinate expression and the protectiveness in it was so much like her father. “He was a Talon. And he had Zevran.”

She sighed.

“I cannot fault the fortitude of your honor,” she told Zevran. “However much I wish that this was _not_ what you had come to tell me. Make it as little an incident as you can.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness. I shall keep you appraised of the situation.”

She dismissed them. Zevran bowed before leaving; the Arl-Commander didn’t. But he never did.

“Erlina,” she said, after they’d closed the door behind them. Her friend stepped out of the hidden door that connected to a secret antechamber of the secretary’s office.

“I will have a list of options ready by evening wine, Anora.”

“And get your people on the question of what _exactly_ was going on in Antiva, please,” she told her, slumping forward in her chair for a moment, thumbs pressed lightly into her temples. “As well as Kirkwall. _Something_ happened to them there - he goes to Antiva immediately afterwards, and returns just as suddenly, and then they are engaged and the Arl-Commander has found a temper? I want to know _why._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

“Satheraan, you don’t-”

“Not here,” Zevran told him. “Please.”

Theron watched him, the whole walk back to the estate. He was putting on an act of being fine, but it was a fragile one. As soon as they passed through the door to the estate’s entrance hall, Theron tugged him into one of the withdrawing rooms meant to accommodate guests who needed a reprieve from a party.

“Satheraan, you don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’ve done enough, and it wasn’t your fault.”

“ _Ultimately,_ perhaps not,” Zevran told him. His eyes were shadowed with grief and the edges of his expression showed old sorrow, and Theron put his hands on Zevran’s waist, for the comfort of the connection. “But I was still there. And I did not listen.”

“You’ve hurt enough.”

Zevran made a noise - almost a laugh, flippant, but too weighted with self-depreciation to qualify.

“It has never stopped hurting. It will always hurt.”

Theron pulled him into a hug.

“I don’t want you to inflict more on yourself when you can avoid it.”

Zevran leaned into him, letting him take his weight.

“I _can_ avoid this,” he said. “But that does not mean I _should._ It is not - it would be wrong. And it would be far more effort to keep up the lie than to admit it outright, at the onset, before anyone can be accused of duplicity.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I am going to.”

If he pushed, this was going to be an argument. Zevran didn’t need an argument right now.

“I love you,” Theron said instead. “No matter how it turns out, I’ll be here.”

Zevran sighed.

“What was Anora speaking to you about?”

“She wasn’t _speaking._ ”

“I would like to change my question. Do I _want_ to know?”

“She was yelling at me about how I’m bad at politics,” Theron told him.

“She is not _wrong._ ”

_“Zevran-”_

“No. No complaining. It is true and she was right and you were wrong. Did you yell back - no, do not tell me, _of course_ you did. You owe her a letter of apology.”

“I don’t want to.”

“She is the _Queen._ ”

“Just because she’s in charge doesn’t mean she’s _right._ ”

“And here I thought that we would be leaving the pettiness behind us when Morrigan announced she was not coming.”

And here they were arguing _anyway._

Take a breath, take a step back.

“I only said I didn’t _want_ to, not that I _wouldn’t,_ ” Theron said. “But she knows I won’t mean it.”

“That does not matter,” Zevran told him. “It is about the form of the thing rather than the sincerity.”

“Then how are you supposed to know if someone is _actually_ sorry?”

“You must rely on your knowledge of their character.”

So then how was Zevran supposed to get Prince Estefan to believe him?

“And when you don’t know them?”

“Then you ask people you know, and they tell you what _they_ know of them, and so on. This why your reputation is _important,_ Theron, and why you _must_ cultivate contacts.”

Well, all right. That was people. He could do people. The reputation aspect wasn’t _that_ much different than clan politics, if he looked at it the right way.

“So if I was _going_ to cultivate contacts,” he said, and Zevran almost smiled. Good, he was pleased - if it distracted Zevran from the presence of Rinna’s father in Denerim, he’d keep coming up with questions. “Who should I know?”

“Your natural first recourse is your alieged lords,” Zevran told him. The act of lecturing was drawing him away from his thoughts, as Theron had hoped. “However you only have the one, plus a handful of knights. This severely limits your power base. Though - has Bann Tarcaisne brought his daughters?”

“I don’t know,” Theron had to admit.

“If he has then those are two more voices than you had. Your second recourse are your peers. You know Arl Eamon, and you have some form of rapport with Teyrn Fergus, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I believe that Arl Bryland thinks highly of you as well. And you have _had_ contact with Arl Alfstanna?”

“Yes, and I met Arl Mallory this winter. We stayed at Ashengard Keep on the way back from Hallarenis’haminathe. And at the Bannorn of Calon.”

“And who is Bann there?”

“Graenan Swate,” Theron told him, unsure of whether Zevran didn’t know, if he was being quizzed. Just in case it was the latter, he added: “And we met his wife Gweneive too.”

“Good. _Very_ good. Keep up those contacts once court begins - that is the _point_ of court, reconnecting everyone. Ask them how things have been going with their families since last you have seen them - have you spoken with Bann Sighard since the Blight?”

“Maybe?”

“No, then,” Zevran said. “His son Oswyn - you remember Oswyn from Howe’s dungeon, yes? - married last summer.”

“He did?”

“Nathaniel received a letter. I am almost tempted to have you send a letter back to Vigil’s Keep and order him to come here, and Oghren to be in charge of the Wardens. But you must be able to stand without him.”

“How did you _learn_ all this?”

Zevran gave him a look.

“I asked Nathaniel.”

Oh.

“Which is what I _should_ have made you do long before this,” he said. “There are not so many Fereldan nobles. Eighteen that you have personally met, at least, is not _so_ bad. It could be much better.”

Where was he getting eighteen from?

“The Queen, for one. The other Arls and Teyrn Fergus; Banns Tarcaisne, Sighard, and Swate; and everyone’s assorted spouses and children. Though I am really not certain how helpful Arlessa Isolde will be, given the, ah, circumstances of your meeting.”

True. Her husband had liked them a lot better. And he cared about Alistair. The marriage arrangement was unfortunate, but he’d been trying to promote Alistair’s social position, because if the man had a major flaw, it was bloodlines and rank.

“You should add Evain Caerthenn and Bedwyr Gaila,” Theron told him. “The last time we came to court for Anora’s coronation I talked to Bann Evain for a long time about the Blight. He was telling me all about how Caer Thenn survived and what he was trying to do to repair it. He wanted to know what I’d done with Vigil’s Keep. I told him to hire Voldrik Glavonak, but I don’t know if he ever did. And Bann Gaila always has a lot to say about White Peak and how the fur trapping and the fishing have been. And what his great-grandchildren are doing. Last year he was very concerned with who was going to foster his great-grandson since most of the knights died in the Blight.”

“Useful. Continue talking to them. And _letters,_ Theron, you _must_ get into the habit of correspondence.”

“I write letters,” Theron reminded him.

“Not only when you have important orders to give or questions to ask or family to speak to,” Zevran said. “Simply to _keep_ that contact. Talk about how Amaranthine is doing. Interesting anecdotes about life at the Vigil. The doings of your people. Information about the market in Amaranthine City that you think would be of interest to whoever you are writing - the _weather!_ Anything. Content does not matter so much, only the intent.”

So sincerity didn’t matter in apologies and topic didn’t matter in conversations.

Something had to be backwards about this, somewhere, but if this was how humans wanted to run their lives…

“Now go do your work. Your family lineage for Anora or the petition of town charter for the settlement outside the Vigil.”

“I’m going to need help with the charter petition,” Theron said hopefully.

“Then write up your lineage,” Zevran told him. “I must go speak to people.”

Drat.

* * *

It was weird working for an elf.

Him being Dalish wasn’t so much of an oddity - it was different, but easy to live with. They’d had the Dalish artisans up at the estate for most of the winter, and they’d hardly been different than anyone in the alienage, once you got past the language and the tattoos.

But every morning she woke up in her parents’ old house in her parents’ old bed, got tea and bread from the younger woman who rented Soris’s old bedroom, said hello to the woman’s new husband from Gwaren as he came back inside from feeding the pigeons, quickly checked on the elderly woman who rented _her_ old room, and went to get dressed.

They were the nicest fucking clothes Shianni had ever owned, even nicer than the wedding dress still sitting wrapped up in her mother’s old trousseau. Every morning she finished breakfast and then changed into a chemise left to hang and air out overnight. It had long sleeves and a long skirt and the linen was a white as it could get. She had plain grey wool stockings, and leather walking shoes she had to wear short wooden pattens over to keep out of the mud and street muck, they were so nice. Over the chemise was a kirtle in Amaranthine’s golden-brown, and over _that_ she had a sleeveless surcoat in Warden blue, shorter than the kirtle and tied at the waste with the long leather key-belt that indicated her status of chamberlain of the estate.

Iro had embroidered the back and lower hem of the surcoat for her as their first, secret courting present, in grey and white and yellow, and now Amaranthine’s bear prowled between her shoulders and flower strings swished just below her knees. With a hooded wool cloak thrown over it all no one ever looked twice at her, and would actually _move out of her way in the road,_ because what elf could afford clothes like _that?_  

Walking home the night after the Arl had arrived with Kallian beside her in her armor  _-_ Maker bless, _yes_ she was Ser Tabris now but _that armor,_ and paid for and commissioned by the Arl no less!  _-_ Shianni felt like a real lady, complete with entourage.

She got a little closer to Kallian.

“So this man of yours-”

 _“Shut up!”_ Kallian told her, staring straight ahead and trying not to move her lips.

Kallian had been right about the man she’d met in Kirkwall. Fenris was a man with _looks,_ with the white hair and the grey eyes and the contrast of it all with his skin, and the black leather and steel was quite the sight. He and Kallian had made an extraordinary pair, riding in at the front of the household with the Wardens, swords slung across their backs.

“He’s busy talking with Orana, he’s not paying attention to _us._ ”

Orana was a mouse of woman, part of Lady Amell’s tiny household that had arrived from Kirkwall earlier in the week. The Arl and his people had seemed awful surprised to see the other two, Bodahn and his son - something about traveling with them during the Blight, and she was going to get the stories out of Bodahn as soon as she could corner him. The man was unfairly hard to pin down, for a dwarf.

Right now, Orana and Fenris were hanging back a few lengths, walking slower and talking lowly in Tevene. Fenris’s mabari, still a lanky puppy despite her size, was happily wandering about in the road, sniffing everything. Shianni had had some meat scraps from the kitchen ready for the pup when she’d arrived at the estate, remembering Kallian’s bitching letters from all across Ferelden during the winter about all the trouble she’d had convincing the man that mabari were _dogs,_ and needed caring for and training to be happy, Shianni you would not _believe_ how fucking stubborn this man is about mabari bonding, and she and Aditi were now fast friends.

A chamberlain, a knight, and a mabari walk into the alienage…

Soris would have been able to make a joke about that, and for a moment the grief stung. Kendells nugshit.

Usually Shianni would eat dinner at the estate, or very late and very quietly in her house so as not to wake her renters, but she’d gotten permission Messere Revasina to take off early for tonight.

 _‘Messere Revasina’_ , huh. That was the _really_ weird part about working for the Arl - to her, he and his fiancé were still the Dalish Hahren Warden who’d turned up with far too much money and stories nobody had ever heard, and the assassin who’d taught her how to turn human corpses into unrecognizable sludge.

Her uncle Cyrion was waiting for them just inside the alienage gates, and Kallian dashed ahead to hug him. He staggered a little and patted her on the back.

“ _Plate armor,_ child.”

“Sorry, Dad. We brought guests.”

 “I know,” he told her, and they pulled apart as Fenris, Orana, and Aditi caught up.

“Dad, this is Orana, she’s the personal maid to the Ladies Amell who are staying up and the estate. And this is Fenris-”

Shianni watched her uncle size up Fenris. Kallian had gone over two decades uninterested in _anybody,_ this was _no time_ to decide that the only guy she’d ever given a second look wasn’t good enough for his daughter- uncle or not, Hahren of the alienage or not, if he didn’t accept Fenris she was going to have a _talk_ with him about it!

“Fenris, Orana, this is my father Cyrion. He’s Hahren of the alienage here.”

But Cyrion smiled at him and welcomed him as warmly as was probably reasonable, for a stranger, even let it go, gracefully, when he held his hand out for Fenris to shake and Fenris stood there uncertain of what he was supposed to do, and bowed shallowly to Orana in return for her curtsey.

“Welcome to our alienage,” he greeted them. “My daughter and niece speak well of you.”

Well _that_ was an exaggeration. All Shianni had told him about Orana, when she’d invited her over, was that she was another escaped Tevinter slave and it showed. It was _Fenris_ they all knew things about, from where he’d been living in Kirkwall down to his sense of humor right down through the way he sharpened his sword, because Kallian was _that gone_ on him.

The real question here was - who did her _uncle_ have as guests?

It turned out to just be one guest, Alarith the shopkeeper. Reasonable, Shianni assumed. He’d been a slave in Tevinter back in his childhood years, and everybody knew the story of how he’d arrived in Denerim, barely nineteen and saved only by the grace of some Dalish who’d helped him on the last leg of his journey. From what he’d been carrying, he’d risen to the third-most prosperous person in the alienage. She and Kallian had beaten him out of the second and first spots last year, but for their entire childhoods he’d been the richest elf they’d ever known.

Iro counted as a guest. Maybe. But he was renting Kallian’s old room from Cyrion, so _he_ didn’t count. Cyrion went to get Kallian and the others settled at the table and Shianni ducked into the kitchen, just behind the wall, and stole a kiss from Iro.

“Hey,” she said against his lips and he held her close. “Good day?”

“One less building likely to collapse,” he told her. “This is bad enough - I can’t imagine what it was like before the Blight burned most of it down and _Arla’lanelan_ started paying most everyone’s wages.”

  Footsteps coming. Shianni drew away and Iro turned back to the fire. By the time her uncle entered she and he were acting like nothing had happened.

She _was_ going to have to say something soon, though. Her uncle was Hahren, in charge of arranging and approving the marriages of the alienage, and over the last couple of months _she_ had suddenly accumulated enough money and status to be a good catch. She wouldn't be surprised to learn that he’d started thinking about it, and dropping hints to letters to other alienages. People would be offering dowers and dowries from _other countries,_ to secure a place for their child in her household.

But she wanted Iro. And Iro wanted to talk to the Arl first.

He’d better have time soon.

The table was very crowded with seven people to seat, but they managed by keeping most of the food in the kitchen. Iro sat quietly through the prayers of thanks to Andraste and the Maker for the food and the family to have it with, and smiled slightly at the candles Cyrion lit at the center of the table, around the fat pile of melted wax that was the household’s everlasting flame to Andraste.

“What?” Kallian asked him, noticing. “I know we don’t _need_ them with the windows and the fire, but it’s tradition.”

“There is a blessing over the fire for Sylaise and her sister before meals in the clans, as well,” he said. “For food and family.”

“So where are you from in the Imperium?” Alarith asked Fenris and Orana, and Orana shrunk and Fenris scowled. Under the table, Aditi rumbled.

Well _this_ was uncomfortable.

“ _Essere quies_ ,” he told them, holding his hands up. “ _Dimite meo._ ”

Orana stared at the table, and very quietly said: “Magister Danarius Monetum of Carastes.” 

Fenris sank lower in his chair.

“I was from Qarinus, myself,” Alarith said, and Orana’s eyes crept up from the wood towards Fenris.

“Isn’t that where your mother was from?” she asked. “When your sister left, she said they were going back-”

Fenris’s head whipped around.

_“What.”_

Orana shrunk again.

“I thought-”

“I have a _sister?_ ”

“Of course you do, you and Varania-”

_“Venedhis!”_

Alarith frowned at him and Kallian said: “Hey now,” so he’d probably sworn.

Fenris looked around, and then looked away from Orana cowering at the other end of the table.

“Apologies,” he said. “I’d heard it said before. I’d hoped I was lied to.”

“Sh-she and your mother,” Orana stammered. “They- when you were chosen, you asked for- for a favor, and he made them Liberati. They went to Qarinus…”

She trailed off as he didn’t respond, and the entire room fell into awkward silence.

“ _Dinathe Tavehnis, sha El’vhenis_ ,” Iro said, tapping his cup sharply on the table and then drinking it all in one go.

“What’s that mean?” Shianni asked, eager to take the conversation somewhere else.

“ _‘Dead Tevenes, happy elves’_ ,” he translated. It got Fenris to give a tight small not-smile, and the conversation turned from there to happier places, like Iro’s work repairing things in the alienage and Kallian’s stories of time on the road that winter with the Arl and the goings-on at the estate.

“I would have invited Messere Revasina’s mother,” Shianni said some time later. “But she’s going to be the Arl’s _mother-in-law._ It would be too awkward.”

“Revasina?” Iro asked, suddenly distracted from his food. “ _Nehna Sora_ Revasina?”

“Well, _‘Nehna Revasina’_ for sure,” Shianni told him. “You know her?”

“Heard of her,” he said, looking thoughtful. “She was big news in Hallarenis’haminathe this winter. Interesting that she’s turned up.”

They tried pushing a little, but he refused to say more. They dropped that topic as well, and the conversation meandered through the rest of dinner and into drinks afterwards, until it was dark and Kallian, Fenris, and Orana had to leave for the estate. Shianni scratched Aditi one more time behind the ears, slipped her the last bit of bread, and walked them out to the gates.

When she returned to her uncle’s house, he and Alarith were ready and waiting. Iro had gone off to bed.

“So,” Cyrion said. “Thoughts?”

“He’s prickly,” Alarith said. “But Magisters do that to people. I remember there was a prayer that everyone said whenever someone went back on the market - _‘Please give them a Soporati master’_. No one wanted to end up in a Magister’s household. Good on him for escaping, and getting his family out.”

“I’m concerned that he didn’t seem to _know,_ ” Cyrion said. “But it does say something good about his character.”

Alarith took another sip of his drink, finishing it off.

“Those markings on him aren’t tattoos,” he said. “Didn’t you notice? It was something magical, I remember how that feels. _Magisters,_ Hahren.”

“Uncle Cyrion, you’ll never get her married to anybody else,” Shianni told him. “Nelaros Gaerentar was hard enough to arrange. Nobody’ll take an elf knight. Nobody will want to risk that. Anyway, she _likes_ this one.”

“True,” her uncle said, and stared pensively into the fire. “True.”

“And he’s got a mabari,” she pointed out. “Hard to beat that.”

“If something happens,” Alarith said. “He’s a fighter. She’s a fighter. They can protect themselves, and anybody who ran away from a Magister can get away from angry southerners.”

“It’s decided, then,” Cyrion said. “So long as he agrees, they’ll be married.”

* * *

_To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan-_

What was his full name? Zevran had forgotten, had to go look it up.

_To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana-_

And he had to get up to pace and think, because what was the proper address for a royal mistress again?

_To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora-_

What was her name? The servants would be able to find out, if they didn’t know already.

_To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora Zashira Elius of the City-_

How formal was too much? He didn’t want to sound rude or curt but there was a time and place for the flowering of court poeticals and this was not it; but a simple opening would not be enough.

_To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora Zashira Elius of the City;_

_The best of your health and fortune to you-_

Zevran had to leave the desk. He hadn’t given that to _Rinna,_ what right did _he_ have to say anything like that to her parents?

He’d been writing in the reception room. Theron was next door in his office and looked up when he walked in, laying his pen down and pulling Zevran into his lap when he got close enough, arms wrapping around his waist to hold him there.

“I really don’t understand why they can’t just call themselves a town and everyone be done with it,” he said, and yes, there was the town charter, spread out across his desk.

“Because being a town is a legal distinction,” Zevran told him. “Villages are simply clusters of houses. A _town_ can have walls, hold fairs, establish guilds, have an official market, hold townmeets to elect a mayor and discuss laws and taxes for your consideration, organize a guard or militia, have a certain number of skilled and educated labor as residents or citizens, is beholden to different tax laws, and _all_ citizens of a town or city are Freemen.”

“But there are Freemen in the farms.”

“And there are peasants in the cities and the towns,” Zevran agreed. “Freemen own land, Theron, even if it is only their own house. Peasants _rent._ All Freemen are citizens somewhere, but they can be merely residents in another town or city if they rent there. This is often the case for merchants.”

“What if they get somewhere to live as part of their wages?” Theron asked. “Like the Wardens? Or the palace guard?”

“Then they are fainsmen and their status is directly tied to their employer. Generally they also do not pay taxes. It is a very desirable position, being a fainsman, better in some ways than being a Freeman and worse in others.”

“These things that only towns get seem like things _everyone_ should have.”

“Well that is not how it works.”

Theron squeezed him briefly.

“And how many died during the Blight because they didn’t have walls?” he asked. “Or a militia; or even just a castle or a fortress or a local knight?”

“You must look at the history of it, Theron,” Zevran told him. “If this Blight had been a century and a half earlier, it is likely that less people would have died and that the farmlands would still be populated.”

“But there were no Wardens in Ferelden then.”

“And the Orlesians had not yet spent forty years and most of an Emperor’s reign ravaging the countryside and becoming increasingly angry and frustrated by Fereldan stonecraft. It is very heavy and square, yes? Difficult to break. Only the Anderfels builds so any longer, and it is because of the darkspawn.”

“But _walls._ ”

Zevran leaned back and kissed his hair.

“And most people in this Age do not spend their childhood learning the stories of the glories of lost civilizations, hiding in the wild spaces, hanging onto life with everything they have, and dreaming of the safety of walls.”

“It wasn’t _that_ desperate,” Theron grumbled.

“But when it was desperate it was _very_ desperate, yes?” Zevran said. “Orlais has not had true walls in Ages, because who could muster the strength to make them necessary? And as Orlais is the style in many places, so came the architecture and martial culture. Antiva’s cities have walls still, but that because they began as pirate strongholds, and truly not much has changed. Rivain fortifies against the Qunari, but stone walls are not good against their explosives. The northern cities of the Free Marches retain theirs, in the most part, but Nevarra long ago plundered their walls for the necropolises, and the Emperors of Orlais frown on nobles who believe that they _need_ walls.”

Theron was quiet a moment.

“So when they took Ferelden, they tore the walls down?”

“In many places, yes,” Zevran said. “Particularly in the Bannorn, but also at many of the seats of the Arls and Teyrns, those being the great fortresses of the country. They were useful for holding the land, yes; but in the event of a rebellion they did not want them to be _too_ useful. In Nathaniel’s great-great-grandfather’s time, Vigil’s Keep had _three_ sets of walls. The one weak wall and falling sentry tower you arrived to was what the Orlesians left.”

“But they had almost thirty years to rebuild,” Theron said. “Why-”

“Because establishing legitimacy is _expensive,_ Theron,” Zevran cut him off, exasperated. “They may have driven the Orlesians out, yes, but that only meant that there was space for someone _else_ to come _in._ Maric exhausted all the gold Meghren Dufayel and the other Orlesian lords left behind reestablishing embassies, moving the national government back to Denerim, fixing the city, and holding court to impress foreign dignitaries.”

“Well it _should_ have gone to the walls-”

“And then it would have all been wasted when the Free Marches or some disgruntled Orlesian second sons came looking to conquer!” Zevran exclaimed. “You do not have to _be_ strong so long as you _appear_ strong; and it is a very good stalling tactic while you attempt to _become_ strong! Ferelden was playing for time for _twenty-three years,_ for the _entirety_ of King Maric’s reign; and then it _stalled_ under Cailan _just_ when it had begun to recover, and _then_ they had the Blight! And as awful as it would have been if it had not be stopped at Denerim, the fact that _only_ Ferelden was affected means that _this is the weakest country in Thedas,_ and worse yet it is most certainly becoming apparent to everyone else! Anora is doing with this court season what Maric did when _he_ gained the throne, which is putting on a show for the rest of the world so that they are deceived into thinking that Ferelden is not _worth_ attacking - and she is making alliances by seeking a foreign husband and by declaring that everyone must be married and she is making a bigger gamble than she had realized, Theron, by having you and Alistair at court in front of foreigners because _neither of you_ are _prepared_ and she is _trying_ to show that Alistair is not a weak point that can be used against her and that _you_ are not someone to be crossed-”

“But I’m _not,_ ” Theron interrupted. “And if _that’s_ what she wanted I don’t see why she was upset about Antiva City.”

“Because there is a _difference_ between a loyal Arl with a strong reputation and a _maddened war hound!_ ”

He felt Theron go stiff behind him and grabbed his arms before Theron could let go of him and push him off.

“That was cruel of me and unfair to you and I am sorry.”

“Are you angry at _me?_ ” Theron asked, tone clipped. “Or am I just a convenient target?”

“I am not _angry._ I came in here because the letter is not progressing well. I know what I need to say but I cannot phrase it properly and it has been _two days._ It has been six years and I have accepted what happened and it should not be so _difficult!_ I would just go over to their quarters and _tell them_ but a letter would be kinder than a surprise visit; but also I just want to - to have it over with!”

“It is over with.”

“No it is not!”

“It sounds like you’re angry at yourself, Satheraan.”

“I am not angry. I am _frustrated._ ”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it is my responsibility.”

“Only because you’re _making_ it your responsibility.”

“I would be happier if you would make _this_ your responsibility,” Zevran said, flinging his hand out over the paperwork.

This time, Theron pushed him off.

“We’re not doing this,” he said. “Come back when you’re ready to talk about it. And I _am_ making it my responsibility. I’m _doing_ it.”

“If you were _making_ it your responsibility,” Zevran told him, turning for the door. “You would already _know_ these things and you would not need _me_ to tell you that the rest of the country is not doing so well as Amaranthine!”

“It’s been four years since the Blight ended,” he heard Theron say. “It can’t be _that_ bad.”

“If Anora fails, the person after her will care less than _dogshit_ about Dalish land grants and I would have _thought_ that you would be keeping an eye on politics if _only_ for their sake,” Zevran told him, and flung the door shut behind him.

He had a letter to finish.

_To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora Zashira Elius of the City;_

_The best of your health and fortune to you, from Zevran Revasina of Amaranthine, formerly of House Arainai of the Crows-_

* * *

“She’s _forcing them_ to get _married,_ ” Alistair said. “Who _does_ that to a man?”

“Nobles,” Andreas said. “In the Anderfels, often only thing they do.”

“Not the _only_ thing,” Lockhard disagreed. “A lot of them fight the darkspawn.”

“ _Everyone_ fights darkspawn. Not special.”

“But what if they don’t _want_ to get married?” Alistair complained. “I mean, it would be one thing if some of them have sweethearts or something, but if it hadn’t just, you know, just sort of _happened,_ you were around and they were around and you, I don’t know _-_ ”

“I don’t think that’s usually how people get married,” Lockhard said.

“Well how _else_ are you supposed to do it?”

“You go to house parties and festivals and you meet people,” Lockhard told him. “And your parents introduce you. And then you go courting.”

“I’m glad I don’t have any parents, that sounds awful.”

“Good on you being Fereldan, then,” Lockhard said, and came at him with the swords again.

Alistair was still not used to this. Granted, it had taken him a while to be okay with sword and shield. But he’d been a kid then. Shouldn’t it be easier to learn a style since he’d already mastered a different one? He _knew_ how to use a sword.

But it was surprisingly hard to focus on two blades at once. His footwork was wrong for this style still, and Lockhard made it look _easy,_ with his ridiculous height and all the graceful arcing and sidestepping. Alistair kept getting his swords tangled, for forgetting that he could block _and_ cut on both sides. Lockhard had settled on teaching him two swords, because he was also a tall human, but Alistair was considering getting Zevran to teach him sword and knife, instead. At least to start.

Zevran was very busy, though. He’d tried to go talk to his friend the past two days, but he always seemed to be out somewhere, speaking to the servants or down with some merchants, or shut up somewhere working on his letter or helping Theron. Maybe Andreas, then, and he could do knives or short swords to start.

Lockhard kept him at practicing forms for a while yet, until they broke for water and sat down on the bench. The private gardens weren’t quite large enough to practice in, when everyone came out at once, but this graveled area was fine for a couple of people at once.

“ _‘Githeren’_ ,” Andreas told him, as he guzzled the last of his water; and a for a moment it was just like practice at Soldiers’ Peak, training in body and language.

“ _‘Ye gether’_ , _‘du geths’_ , _‘ran githre’_ , _‘hi githere’_ , _‘gir giths’_ , _‘degir giths’_ , _‘sied githeren’_ ,” he rattled off. He didn’t even have to think about Ander verb conjugations any longer, they’d been doing this so long. But- “I don’t know that word. What’s it mean?”

Andreas grinned and said: “To marry.”

“You’re awful, you know that?”

They’d gone back to practicing when Shianni came down the path and waited at the edge of the area.

“Hey,” Alistair greeted her, breaking away from the practice. “Someone need us?”

“Arl Eamon is here to see you.”

Maybe he could talk his way out of this. He’d need, what, five, ten minutes to quickly wash up, dry off, and get changed? That was enough time to come up with _something-_

But no, here came Arl Eamon, down the path behind Shianni. Alistair caught a flash of annoyance on her face she glanced behind her to see what he was looking at - she hadn’t expected him to follow? It was a nice day to talk outside, though, and he was more comfortable out here than in one of the sitting rooms.

He wished he’d had a chance to wipe off the sweat and change clothes, though.

“Arl Eamon,” he greeted, and then realized a few seconds too late that because _he_ hadn’t bowed, Lockhard and Andreas hadn’t, either. There was no good way to signal them to do so without being obvious and drawing attention to it. Oh well. Eamon had always been more forgiving then Isolde, he’d let it go.

“Alistair, my boy!” Eamon greeted him in turn, a smile on his face. “It's good to finally see you! Who are your friends?”

“Wardens Lockhard Brant and Andreas Kasteros.”

Andreas was eyeing the Arl.

“Should we stay, Captain?” he asked in Ander.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied in the same language. “See you for dinner?”

“Hm,” Andreas said, and spent a moment looking Eamon over before walking off with Lockhard.

“Foreigners?” Arl Eamon asked, after Alistair offered him the bench.

“The First Warden sent them with me from the Anderfels, when I went to give our report after the Blight,” Alistair told him. “I came back with a whole group of them. They’re up at Soldiers’ Peak now, and I’ve been living with them for - huh, a couple years now.”

“You aren’t at Vigil’s Keep?” Arl Eamon asked, eyesbrows rising, and Alistair explained about being assigned to oversee the repairs to the Peak, and the Voshai’s attachment to him, and his captaincy.

“You’re better suited to the Vigil, my boy,” Eamon told him. “Someone of your station-”

“But I’m a Warden-Captain-”

“And why not Constable?” he asked. “Perhaps the Arl-Commander deserved his position for killing the Archdemon, but _you_ were the Blight Warden, not that Howe.”

“I mean, it _would_ be nice to be at the Vigil,” Alistair admitted. “It feels like I only ever spend a lot of time Theron when there’s a problem, nowadays. But Nate’s good at his job, and Oghren and I are Warden-Captains of the outposts _because_ we were with Theron during the Blight.”

“ _‘Nate’_?” Arl Eamon asked.

“He’s a friend,” Alistair told him, feeling oddly defensive about it. “He’s a lot better than his father, for sure.”

“Still, a traitor’s son.”

“He’s not his father!”

“All sons can become their fathers,” he said. “It isn’t an easy influence to break.”

“Well _Nathaniel_ will never.”

“Your faith in people does you credit, my boy; but you should learn to exercise caution.”

“I can tell for _myself_ who’s trouble, thanks.”

Arl Eamon gave him a look - and Alistair _remembered_ that look, he hadn’t been bestowed with that particular head tilt and eyebrow raise since he’d been, what? Six? Seven?

It still made him squirm just as badly as it had then.

 _Don’t be rude, boy,_ Arl Eamon’s old words echoed in his memories.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Eamon patted him on the back.

“Court manners, my boy. You’re in the watch of nobility, now. You wouldn’t want to disgrace yourself in front of the young ladies, would you?”

“So about that-”

“There are a number of young women of good standing at court this season,” Eamon told him. “Arl Bryland’s daughter is only a year younger than you, and the best match for your station. When her father dies, you’d have your own arling, and your other children would be Arls! You’d have to make additions to the marriage contract specifying inheritance, of course, no reason to hand South Reach over the crown when she’s got Gwaren and Denerim already. Arl Mallory’s second-eldest is in the same situation-”

“Arl Eamon, I-”

“Or there’s Bann Kelaig’s daughters. Winter’s Breath isn’t the nicest Bannorn but it’s right on the border. Jader isn’t too far, and they’re sitting on all the road tolls from Gherlen’s Pass and the taxes and tariffs from the Orlais and Orzammar trades.”

“Look, I don’t-”

“If you want to stay close to Amaranthine,” Eamon continued, sounding rather put out about that possibility. “Bann Tarcaisne’s elder daughter is only three years younger than you. Not the _best_ choice, but if it suits you, you could do worse.”

“Arl Eamon I don’t _want_ to get married.”

“Nonsense. You’re a young man of good station and career. You could have been _king_ -”

“I didn’t want to be king, either-”

“And I suppose you never will now,” Arl Eamon said. He almost sounded disappointed. “You could have done a fine job, and I worry that you’re squandering your potential. If you aren’t Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine, where will you ever get your chance to show what you’re capable of if you _don’t_ marry into a noble family an inherit a title?”

But he _didn’t want to get married._

Eamon sighed.

“You may only be my nephew by marriage, Alistair,” he said, voice a little soft and sad. “But since Connor - you are the closest thing I have to a son. Isolde is pregnant again, but is she nearly out of her childbearing years and nothing is certain. If you were not a Warden…”

There was a lot of possibility in that unfinished sentence, but Alistair still felt like pointing out that if he hadn’t become a Warden, he would have become a Templar, and he’d almost certainly have died in Kinloch Hold after Uldred had returned from Ostagar.

“Maker’s blessings with the Arlessa,” Alistair told him. He hadn’t heard that Isolde was pregnant.

“Thank you, my boy,” Eamon told him. “Cailan never had children, and my sister’s blood has no more chance of flowing through the Kings and Queens of Ferelden. We Guerrins are giving all the help we can, with how much we have lost - but _you,_ my boy, you could help restore this country.”

“It seems to be doing all right. I mean, it’s not as good as it was before the Blight, but it’s getting better.”

“That is only appearances,” Eamon said darkly. “And appearances are _everything._ The Queen knows this. Her father would have run this country into the ground, and she will yet, if left untempered. Children never stray far from their parent’s ways. _Your_ father was a good man, and a good husband, and you are sure to follow him.”

 _My father didn’t want me,_ Alistair thought suddenly, and shoved it away. _That_ was a new feeling, and unworthy of the man. Maric had been a good king.

“I don’t think I will, Arl Eamon. You think too highly of me.”

* * *

The Arl of Amaranthine was not a good employer.

The Arl rose each morning later than the housekeeping servants arrived, but still before most nobles tended to be awake. He got out of bed, he put on _armor,_ he went down _to the kitchens_ to have breakfast, and then he fought his Wardens, guards, and fiancé in the private gardens until his fiancé made him leave and attend to work in his office.

He stayed in his office until lunch, or through lunch, after which his fiancé had put him to lessons with _Maman_ about manners and decorum. Lunch was the _one time_ that Damien tended to see him, despite the way the Arl tended to stick to his schedule, because even _he_ couldn’t turn lunch being brought to him on a tray into an opportunity to suggest that he _‘enjoy his free time’_.

He was a _personal manservant._ He did not have _‘free time’_! The lord rose, and the manservant was there to dress and shave him and have breakfast delivered. The lord went to walk the grounds, and the manservant followed to attend him. The lord closeted himself in his office to work, and the manservant fetched parchment and ink and books and people as needed. The lord went on social calls, and the manservant stood unobtrusively to the side, waiting for orders. The lord hosted a private gathering, and the manservant attended the guests. The lord went to bed, and the manservant was there to undress him and help him review the business of the day.

The housekeeping staff spoke to the lord through his chamberlain, but the manservant was the representative of the personal service staff and select junior and branch-line members of the family. While the manservant was awake he was _busy,_ he slept only once the lord did and had _holiday_ time only on the great Chantry feasts, and only if the lord was magnanimous enough to grant it to him.

He was not supposed to present himself at the lord’s study for his service only to be told that he didn’t need him and that he should go _‘enjoy his free time’._

Damien had trained _his entire life_ for his job. He _was_ his job. He was a personal servant and he did not have _hobbies,_ he did not have _‘free time’_ , and it was frankly _insulting_ that the Arl of Amaranthine was assuming otherwise!

The Arl gave him nothing to do but bring him his lunch if he hadn’t gone and gotten it for himself, and sooner or later someone was going to catch onto the fact that he was being paid _sixty silver a month_ plus room and board and two sets of clothes a year to deliver _lunch._ This was a situation beyond all reasonable accounting and most _certainly_ was grounds for termination of employment. As it stood he was not _worth_ what they were paying him, and sixty silver a month plus benefits was not a cost that was lightly accrued, even for a high noble house. What you saved on two months’ pay for a releasing a servant of his standing would buy a trained horse.

If he got fired he and his mother would have nowhere to go - well, nowhere _reasonable,_ because his mother had come back from breakfast this morning and asked him how he’d feel about her and Nehna getting properly married and that was _fine_ so long as no one expected him to call Nehna Revasina _‘mother’_ or go live in Mont-de-glace.

Though _Maman_ was getting on in years. She was forty-six, and if she properly married Nehna she’d have a merchant’s income and of course things would cost next to nothing in the back end of nowhere. She could retire and live comfortably, or at least in happiness.

But it would be _without him._ They’d never been apart a day in their lives and Damien wasn’t sure they’d be able to handle that absence. _He_ certainly wouldn’t be able to.

It would be a few hours yet before the Arl would be wanting lunch. If he had to stand for being discarded and disregarded, he decided, _today_ was the day he would refuse to put up with it. He got his coat and hurried across the private gardens to the stables.

“No, no treats today, I’m sorry,” he told the halla quietly in Orlesian. They seemed to respond to any language as well as another, and this way the stablehands couldn’t mock him for talking to the halla like they could talk back. “Maybe next time.”

Nehna Revasina took care of her buck, but the doe in the next stall over, here in the back of the stables, wasn’t attended to. Presumably she belonged to the Dalish mage who had helped the chamberlain write their letters to Lady Stockard, but Damien hadn’t seen him since they’d returned. If the Dalish had thought that the stable hands were good enough to take care of the halla, he’d been wrong - those same stable hands had smirked at him when he’d come in the afternoon of their first full day in the city, frustrated and wearing his gloves and house shoes and Marcher fashion, but they’d stopped making comments behind his back about how he was about to get gored when both halla kicked out the stable partition latch doors to get closer to him.

Damien didn’t know the doe’s name, but he’d taken to calling her Jasmine. She didn’t seem to mind, and tried to follow him around as he slipped into her stall.

“No, girl, no,” he said, gently pushing her head back around. “I can’t brush you if you’re facing me.”

She huffed pointedly at that to insist that yes he _could,_ but stayed facing front to oblige him, leaning into his brush strokes.

Eirlin watched them sadly over his partition wall.

“You’ll have your turn when Nehna comes,” Damien told him, but gently scratched the soft skin of his nose anyway. 

He was down on his knees in the clean hay with the pick and one of Jasmine’s back hooves when she inched forward.

“Hey, hey,” he reminded her. “I’m down here-”

There was a sharp, muffled gasp from above him. He dropped Jasmine’s hoof and stood. The Amells’ lady’s maid was standing there, caught in the act of trying to flee by Jasmine grabbing the cuff of her sleeve in her teeth. In her other hand, the maid still had a small bundle of crocuses, not tattered by halla teeth like the few that had dropped into Jasmine’s stall.

She was staring at him and he was staring at her. He had hay sticking to his trousers still and there were tears welling up at the corners of green eyes.

“Crocuses were a good choice,” Damien blurted, out of sheer embarrassment, because if they were talking about the flowers maybe she wouldn’t notice the halla hair on his sleeves or the way he probably smelled faintly of stable. “Halla love flowers.”

“Do they?” she said faintly.

 “Yes,” he said. “And springtime buds on the trees. When _Maman_ and I were in Orlais, we didn’t go to country until summer, but I would hear the gamekeepers talking about where and when they’d found stripped trees and scat piles-”

What was he _saying._ As the Amells’ lady’s maid and the Amells’ being guests of the Arl and something like family, she and he were of approximately the same social standing and one _did not_ talk about animal feces in polite company!

“There are halla in Orlais?”

“In the Dales, yes,” he told her, grateful that she seemed to be overlooking his disgraceful manners. “They run feral on the Exalted Plains, and in the Arbor Wilds. I have heard they are also feral in the Tirashan and the Brecilian, and the Hunterhorns and Frostbacks and the Gamordan Peaks - wherever humans are not often found. Halla are intelligent. They know they are meant to be with elves, and that humans are more likely to kill them than help them.”

“They’re meant to be with elves?” she asked, and hesitantly offered the rest of the crocuses to Jasmine, who let go of her sleeve and delicately took a few, munching happily away.

Eirlin sighed and let out a small, pitiful moan. The maid smiled, a fleeting little thing, and Damien realized that she had the face for it - it was just that the few times he _had_ seen her, he hadn’t noticed. She’d always been tucked away in the corner or off to the side, quiet and small and closed off.

She was even more unobtrusive and retiring than _he_ was, in the course of his duty, he realized, as she gave the rest of the crocuses to Eirlin, making him perk up. How… commendable. And unexpected.

He was going to have to walk out of this stall with hay and hair stuck to him, and she was going to _see._ He ducked down behind the stall door to pick up his coat from where it had fallen off the stall partition and quickly tried to brush himself off. It didn’t work very well. If he folded his coat over the arm with the worst of the hair, and let it hang in front of his pants…

“Yes, they are meant to be with elves,” he told her, once his coat was properly arranged and he had stepped out of the stall. Were the stablehands watching? The stablehands were watching.

The stablehands were watching her, and he was close enough to see her start to tremble under the attention. Jasmine’s head tilted dangerously, and Eirlin’s ears flicked up as he scraped his hoof against the pounded dirt below the hay as he resettled his weight.

The halla had scented a scared elf and they were going to do something about it, unless the situation was ended. His other sleeve was also dirtied, but she had already graciously forgiven the incident of the feces.

“Would you permit me the honor of escorting you back to the manor, Mistress-”

He didn’t know her name! _He didn’t know her name._

“Orana,” she said. “Oh- oh no, you wanted- I- uh- Ar- Archieros? Mistress Archieros? Messere Daganiri.”

She knew _his_ name, how could he have overlooked this, this was _unconscionably rude_ of him. She took his offered arm anyway, and he was going to have to come up with a very good way to apologize to her.

Mistress Archieros paused at the threshold of the stable.

“Do you- do you want to put your coat back on. Messere Daganiri?”

Yes. It was cold. But it was preserving his dignity.

“No, thank you.”

The warmth of the kitchen was a blessed relief. The sight of the Arl at the fire, methodically breaking chicken bones to get at the marrow, was less so. The Arl had been hungry and he had not _been_ there to fetch food, no matter that he’d been _planning_ on doing it at the usual lunch time, this was what he was _for._

The Arl saw them come in and did not, as Damien bowed and Mistress Achieros curtsied, berate him for being negligent in his duty.

“I took lunch early today, you don’t need to bring anything,” he said.

“As you say, Your Arlship,” Damien replied, holding the bow a bit longer than normal. “I shall see you for dinner.”

It was a little impertinent, but asking _‘Shall I see you for dinner?’_ implied that he might not. If he didn’t give the Arl the option-

“No, you don’t need to,” the Arl told him, and picked up another bone to crack.

A dismissal, and his effort was all in vain, as usual. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would stand outside the Arl’s office and _not leave_ until it was time to fetch lunch. He _would not_ be cheated out of the _one_ job he was allowed. Not any longer.

He and Mistress Archieros passed through the kitchen. He began to withdraw his arm to wish her a good afternoon, but she placed a hand on top of his and said: “We will be in the Arlessa’s salon if you can join us.”

“Then I will join you directly,” he promised, and only properly realized what he’d just committed himself to after she’d walked away. Doubtless she had meant that she and the Ladies Amell would be in the Arlessa’s salon, and he simply _could not_ arrive with _nothing to do._ He could not be seen to be derelict in his duty, no matter that the Arl had been derelict in _assigning_ him his duty.

What could he do? What could he _possibly_ do in the Arlessa’s salon that could be construed as work for the Arl-

Ten minutes later he arrived at the Arlessa’s salon with the Arl’s armor and sword and the bag with the upkeep supplies in it, only to find that Mistress Archieros was _not_ in the Arlessa’s salon with the Ladies Amell, but with the assassin children. They were all at the tea table, with a few cheap books and a sheaf of low-quality paper and a reed pen.

Very well then. So long as the assassin children stayed away from him.

Damien spread out the canvas square that was used to protect floors from the armor cleaning solution and polish when maintenance was done inside. Properly this was to be done somewhere like the stables or the kitchen, but he had been _invited,_ and if the Arl was going to put on his armor every morning and wouldn’t let Damien help him, then by the Maker Damien was going to make certain that it was _presentable_ armor!

He started on the breastplate first, because that seemed easiest to hold. He hadn’t had to do this before, really. There had been old armor sets on display in the mansion in Lydes that he’d learned to clean, but that was cleaning up accumulated dust and household grime, not real wear. The Duchess had paid some chevaliers’ squires to come in every six months to do the _real_ work of keeping the iron and steel pieces from rusting, and keeping the leather from snapping. In Starkhaven, Messere Arhuis had had a city sword he’d tasked him to take care of, but that was again more a showpiece than a functional tool, and swords were relatively easy.

Damien was hesitant to touch the Arl’s sword much, anyway. The hilt was Dalish, and the lines reminded him strongly of the architecture in Lydes, but surely no metal was not supposed to have that slick blue sheen under the dark patina.

Warden armor was surprisingly fiddly. There were molded bits, and crevasses, and the _insides_ of the silverite plates were engraved with symbols, the lines colored by some blue-tinged white material trapped under a sort of resin, or - glass?

Touching the largest one, on the inside of the breastplate over where the Arl’s heart would be,  made the nerves of his fingers _vibrate._ It was deeply uncomfortable and off-putting, and he folded the cleaning cloth over three more times to keep away from it.

He’d thought this would be like polishing silver. It was not - and the gloves and boots had silverite detailing and the leather would need cleaning and oiling, and the heavy gambeson that went under the plate had those rows and rows of silverite scale in with the quilting and it was going to be _awful,_ even worse than dealing with the overlapping plates of the faulds and paldrons he hadn’t even _touched_ yet-

“You’re doing it wrong,” the girl assassin said, _right next to him,_ and he nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the cleaning cloth and letting the breastplate slip out of his grasp in the process. She snatched both from him and retreated to the other edge of the cloth, hunching defensively over the plate and rubbing it down in hard, confident strokes.

“Tiar,” Mistress Archieros said gently. “That’s Messere Daganiri’s job.”

“He’ll _ruin_ it,” she snapped, and grabbed one of the small pots Damien had opened to check the contents of, and then put aside. “This armor has to have cost more than all three of us and he didn’t even start heating the wax!”

“Tiar-”

“He’s fancy. He can help _you._ ”

He was not going to fight an assassin, even a young one. She clearly knew what she was doing better than he did. He stood from the cloth and went to see what was going on at the table.

It was writing exercises, the sort he’d had in Lydes when he was a young child. Mistress Archeiros was very carefully, and very slowly, copying letters from the books and from a somewhat sloppy hand that must have been the boy assassin’s writing. 

She finished the last letter she had been working on and looked up at him.

“Lady Amell was teaching me, in Kirkwall,” she said. “But then everything happened, and she hasn’t the time any longer. Diego and Tiar know their letters, and they tell me what’s written in the books…”

Damien took a closer look at the books on the table. Marcher imports, serial trash, not _real_ writing. Only good for a feast day’s entertainment, if you liked that sort of thing.

The estate library was just the next room over. He ducked out of the salon and quickly grabbed the simplest _real_ books he could see.

“Move those,” he ordered the assassin boy, coming back with a short stack of better-quality reading material. “Here - Sister Petrice, Brother Genitivi, the Canticle of Threonides, and Oria Amanti. Studies, religion, and poetry.”

The assassin boy carefully opened the cover of the topmost one.

“Pictures,” he said.

“Yes, there are pictures. Now, Mistress Archeiros, I believe that your writing will flow smoother if you do not hold that pen like a knife-”

* * *

Satheraan was alive.

She’d held him in her arms again, she’d heard his voice again, seen his face, even kissed him. Against all probability and her old prayers otherwise, he was alive.

In another situation, she’d have better appreciated the fact that she’d prayed so often to Falon’din for the comfort of her son’s soul and he’d turned up betrothed to a Dalish man dedicated to that god, but she and he weren’t speaking so she refused to give him even the potential satisfaction of considering it further.

And she had Tanis. That was good, even if they _were_ living in a human city, no matter if they were surrounded by elves or not and no matter if she’d sent a letter south with the Arl’s brother and sister to have delivered to Dovachay or not. She hadn’t been in a city this long since Lydes, and what was she supposed to _do?_

Oh, Satheraan came to see her every day. And she went down to see Eirlin in the stables to brush him and check his tack and suspiciously eye the other halla in residence there. She hadn’t come with _them_ and the Arl wasn’t supposed to come here often, so who had she arrived with?

There was also the matter of Satheraan’s children. They’d all ridden here together and they only lived just down the hall. They’d broken into her room the first afternoon here, and she and the girl had stared at each other until the boy quietly closed the door and relocked it.

They were Crow children, and it- had Satheraan been like that, when he’d been their ages? They hadn’t talked about Antiva, only Mont-de-glace and the Chasind. He’d been keen on the news of Salladin, and she hadn’t… quite told him, about how well the two of them got along, or that if he wanted to go find her he’d have to go by himself. She almost wanted to warn him not to go, but she’d seen him trying to connect with Damien, on the road here, when he wasn’t riding with her or his children.

He loved those children. Nehna wasn’t sure if any of them had said it to each other, or if the children loved him in return, but it was obvious to her how he felt. She hoped, for the sake of his heart, that the children loved him back. He’d be a good father for them. He was a good one for the sorceress’s boy, for what little she’d seen of them together before they’d had to leave.

That would make her a grandmother. And Tanis-

As unexpected as it was, she was currently hiding in the garden, avoiding everyone who had come through, but especially Tanis. That morning the chamberlain had approached them both at breakfast and asked, straight out, if they were married. Tanis had said: _“Oh!”_ very quietly and started to edge her way towards an answer, and Nehna had grabbed the rest of the rolls and fled the kitchen and been in the gardens ever since.

What if Tanis had told her yes.

What if she’d told her _no?_

She loved Tanis. She loved Tanis and what if-

It was too big a thought and she couldn’t face it. She went looking for a new spot in the gardens instead, and ended up finding her son.

He was standing on the gravel path under the pine walk, scowling at the tiny colorful crocuses sprouting around their roots, huddled into the thick fur collar of his cloak. His entire expression changed when he caught sight of her, and his shoulders dropped, and once again Nehna had to remind herself of where and when she was. Satheraan had grown up to look so much like Adan, and the Crow tattoos down the side of his face tricked her for a second, every time she looked at him.

“ _Mamae_ ,” he greeted her warmly, and wrapped her in his cloak when he hugged her hello. She rested her face in the collar and breathed deeply through the fur, staving off the few threatening tears. Whenever he _looked_ at her like that, that same way he had when he’d been a child, and not yet hurt by the world-

“It is a bit cold for a walk,” he told her, and she moved so that she could speak.

“It’s far colder right now further south. This is almost warm.”

He sighed, theatrically disappointed.

“Oh, how well I know that fact. What terrible winters you must have suffered in the Wilds.”

“You should come meet the Dlanikik,” she said, and suddenly realized that she _did_ want him to - she wanted to go back to Mont-de-glace and she wanted Satheraan to come with her, to follow her on the trading roots and jest with the Chasind and charm the Orlesian merchants into bartering lower. “It snows Kingsway through Justinian, and the ground never unthaws.”

“Only _two months_ without snow!” he said, the dismay real this time.

“And two weeks of flowers, smaller than the nail on your littlest finger and barely leaving the ground. The moss and the lichen bloom and turn colors, at least where it’s not just ice over rock, and snow over that.”

“How do they _live._ ”

“They hunt whales,” Nehna told him. “Very, very big fish - as big as dragons.”

“Andraste protect us,” he muttered. “Remind me to stay away from oceans.”

“It’s the smaller whales you have to worry about. They have teeth.”

“ _Fish_ should not have _teeth!_ ” he exclaimed, and she smiled, remembering her reaction to first seeing the killer whales of the southern seas. “They are meant to be _small,_ not larger than the boat you catch them from, and put in _chowder!_ ”

“You get a lot of lamp and cooking oil out of a whale.”

“And I will stay with oil from sesame seeds and _reasonably-sized_ fish, thank you.”

She’d have to show him some of her ivory carvings - she should make something for him, she’d made things for Tanis and Damien. But what would he like?

“What did the crocuses do to you?” she asked, thinking about it. Amaranthine’s symbol was a bear, she could do one of the white southern ones.

“They are insufferably cheerful,” Satheraan told her. “It is terribly inconsiderate of them.”

Insufferably-

She pulled back to look at him.

“You’re not happy?” she asked, and his smile slid sideways, the sincerity of it leeching away.

“I am having a difficulty,” he said. “So I have stepped away from it for now. I have been considering taking a walk.”

“Let’s go then,” Nehna urged, struck with the sudden desire to _leave_ for a little while, and get away from all this. “Go ride outside the city, walk around in the hills, and come back for dinner.”

“Dinner is a long time from now,” he said, but didn’t sound particularly worried about it.

“So we’ll have plenty of time.”

That seemed to be enough for him. They got Eirlin and a horse and he led them through the streets and out the gates, then along the walls into the hills above the great tower in the southeastern corner of the city.

But he got quieter as he did so, more withdrawn, and she started worrying.

“Satheraan?” she asked, once they’d passed over the crests of a few hills and Denerim was far below them, even the tower distant. “What were you having trouble with?”

They were on a flat rise now, with an overlook. He dismounted his horse and sat down on the edge of it, far too close to falling for her peace of mind. She joined him on the edge, close enough to catch him if he slipped. Off on the horizon, the Waking Sea glinted in the sunlight. 

“I am writing a letter,” he said after some moments of silence between them. “I had not thought it would be so difficult. Difficult to _some_ degree, yes. But not so much as this.”

“Who are you writing to?” Nehna asked. “Do you have friends in Antiva?”

It wasn’t a laugh, that noise, but there wasn’t a better word.

 _“Hardly,”_ Satheraan said. “The only people I could ever call such-”

He cut off and his expression closed. He slumped forward slightly, and she resisted the urge to grab him. He wasn’t falling, just… hurting.

“There is a Prince of Antiva at court with his lady,” he said, and this was a subject change. “His brother once sent all their children to the Crows. I knew his eldest.”

She couldn’t see where he was going with this.

“He doesn’t like Crows?”

“I killed he-”

There was a physical halt to those words as he stopped himself, a jerk in his chest that carried through the rest of him, down to the twitch of his fingers.

“I did not stop her murder. And there is no good way to put that. I _cannot_ simply socialize in the same circles and _not_ admit my part in it, but every time I have tried to write the words they sound too flippant, too insincere - and even if I _could_ find the proper words what good would it do? They had their children stolen from them by his brother, who then arranged _her_ murder at our hands, and she is _dead._ And I am alive, and well, and usually quite happy with my life and I am getting _married_ and I am in a position of power. How are they meant to find comfort in _that?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Nehna said. “I never did. Not for you.”

When he looked over at her his expression was weighted down with old hurt, and she twisted uncomfortably inside. She knew from her own life there was no helping that. It couldn’t be fixed. But she didn’t _want_ him to have reason to look like that.

 _Wishing does you no good,_ she told herself savagely. _If you’d done better this wouldn’t have happened to him._

They went back to looking at the Waking Sea.

“What happened?” Nehna asked, after a while, because she couldn’t stand the silence and - she didn’t want to know, or she did but she didn’t want to hear how it had hurt him, or-

He wasn’t answering.

“You don’t have to-”

“No,” he said. “No one has ever asked me that. Neither Theron nor Alistair ever asked for any more details. I simply... need to think on it a moment.”

She waited.

“Children bought by the Crows do not go into a House immediately,” Satheraan began after a few minutes, and no, this was _not_ what she’d- “The ones who are still alive by the time they are eleven, twelve are selected by Houses. The younger you come the longer you wait, and the better a prize you are for the Houses when they come to claim apprentices. In my group there was another boy, Taliesin. We - we were friends, and the closest thing we had to family. We were not allowed to _acknowledge_ this of course, because the Crows wish to destroy any loyalty that is not to the House Masters, but we were the best, so we were taken together into a House. The next year the _congradi_ were introduced and we were given to Rinna, and-”

He shrugged, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“We loved each other,” he said, looking away again. “We kept each other from falling apart under the Crows for near fifteen years, and then one day we won a difficult contract on a merchant in Antiva City. He was crafty, he had many connections, and there were rumors that he had suborned other Crows who had accepted the contract. The way the three of us worked as a cell, Rinna did our planning, Tali provided brunt muscle, and I was - well, I was the sneaky and underhanded one, with the poisons and the distractions. We occupied an empty apartment near the man’s city villa, and Rinna went out to do reconnoissance on it. I went to fetch supplies and when I returned Taliesin was waiting for me, with papers. He had been looking at Rinna’s planning, you see, and had found a letter in her writing to the merchant speaking of treason against the Crows, and how she would throw this contract to cut her ties with them to join his organization instead.”

“It sounds like you needed a better friend,” Nehna said, because what else was there? Betrayal after fifteen years was no light thing.

“To not succeed on a contract is to be killed by the Crows,” Satheraan told her bleakly. “She was a daughter of the royal family and _congradi._ Perhaps she could have avoided the Crows and done what the letter said, allying her with rebels and using her skills to make herself Queen of Antiva and take control that way. But Taliesin and I, we were _compradi._ Slaves to the Crows, bought and paid for. If Rinna ran without us _we_ would be the ones killed, and the fact that she had _not_ said anything told us that she did not care. We were scared and hurt and could not admit it was because he loved her and trusted her, because these were things that were not allowed. It was Tali’s idea to kill her, really. I would only have taken letter to the House Master and let _him_ deal with it, but Tali was convinced it would be better to deal with it ourselves _and_ come back with the contract fulfilled. So when she came back we ambushed her. We all knew each other very well, with fighting, but I cut the backs of her knees so she could not stand and Tali pinned her down and told her we knew she was a traitor and that we had found her letter and she said _‘what letter?’_ and he said _‘you would abandon us to the Crows’ justice!’_ and she said _‘no, I wouldn’t, I would never betray you like that, I **love** you - Tali, Zev, **I love you-** ’ _and it was such blatant manipulation that I laughed at her and called her a liar and stood there while he slit her throat. We took our things and left her body there in the room because disgraced Crows deserve no mourning rites and somehow we killed that merchant anyway. And of course it was only while we were doing it that we realized that Rinna and the merchant had never been in contact a day of their lives and she had been framed and we had fallen for it. Tali did not want to say anything but we knew we would get caught in a lie. We reported back to the House Master expecting to be tortured to death once we’d admitted what we’d done, but Rinna’s uncle in the Crows was there with the House Master, and congratulated him on having such devoted Crows to support his rise to power. Three days later the House Master became Grandmaster of the Crows, and-”

He stopped abruptly. She waited a minute, then two, and then asked: “And?”

She couldn’t tell if the smile he gave her was a fake one, or if it was just that he was remembering painful things that made it look insincere.

“And then I came to Ferelden to get away from the Crows,” he told her. “Tali volunteered to come after me, once the Crows realized what I had done, and we were both young and too scared of the Crows to see any option but more death, so I killed him when he refused to come with me, because he would only return to Antiva and tell the Crows exactly what I had done and then I would have no peace. It is hard to fit this all into a letter and that is what I have been struggling with for these past days.”

“You could just write it all down and send it,” Nehna said.

“It seems better done in person, no?” Satheraan said. “And in any case I have already written it. I was trying to prepare myself to send it in the gardens but I will never be prepared. I may as well go back.”

Well. Okay then.

The ride back to the city was quiet as well, and Satheraan left her at the stables with a little smile and promise to see her the next day.

Nehna started to head back inside, realized that she still didn’t know what she’d say about that morning if she saw Tanis, and went back to the gardens. 

* * *

Two days before Wintersend, a runner in royal livery arrived with a summons.

She’d said she’d see him next at court, what did she want _now?_

The summons didn’t mention Zevran or Alistair, which was a shame. Theron felt like he could have used the company.

When he arrived in the palace, the meeting wasn’t in Anora’s office, like he was used to. He was shown to the Royal Salon. There were silver plates of late morning refreshments - little fruit things. And pitchers of chilled wine, and small beer, and water for cutting the alcohol.

“Pastries with cream,” Fergus whispered to him when he stood there staring at the refreshments for too long.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, and took one of the ones with last summer’s strawberry preserves on top.

He, Fergus, and Arl Alfstanna had been invited. That was expected. But Arl Bryland was here too, and Arl Mallory, and Arl Eamon. What was _this_ meeting going to be about?

Also, Anora wasn’t here yet.

Zevran’s angry words from the day before rose to the front of his mind. Zevran had apologized for his parting shot after dinner, but-

He knew things, about politics and people and the mystifying bits of settled society. He did lie, sometimes, but he didn’t do it in anger. Zevran had brought up the land grant for Hallarenis’haminathe and that meant that it was important enough to notice. If he had to keep Anora in power, and Ferelden from falling apart, no matter how much it looked like both were doing well and stable in their positions - if it was for The People, of course he’d do it.

But that didn’t mean that he actually knew what to do.

Well, the point of court season was supposed to be to keep up contacts, Zevran had said. If these other nobles had been friends he hadn’t seen in a while - if they’d been from Sabrae - what would he ask about?

“How are your children?” he asked Arl Mallory.

“Well,” she told him, smiling at being asked. “This will be Marieth’s first time at court, and she’s relieved that she had the opportunity to meet you and Lord-Captain Mac Maric over the winter, so that she’ll have some familiar faces.”

Marieth was the young blonde one. Liked cats.

“It will be nice to remake her acquaintance, as well.”

That was polite enough, wasn’t it? A sort of non-answer?

“And how has your son been?” Arl Mallory asked. “He was very charming, and Isar enjoyed his company.”

“He’s back with the Dalish for the spring and summer with his mother,” Theron told her, and then realized that he needed a _reason._ Arl Mallory _knew_ they’d spent most of the winter with the Dalish, what was a reason for them to go back that _wasn’t_ magic- “My clan recently arrived in Hallarenis’haminathe and he’s getting to know that part of his family.”

“Your clan isn’t from Ferelden?”

No Dalish was _from_ Ferelden.

“They were in the Brecilian for most of my life, yes,” he said. “But they fled north during the Blight, to the area around Kirkwall. It took them this long to get back. He and his aunt get along well. She likes him.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes, and a brother. We thought he died during the Blight, but I just found him again a couple of weeks ago. He’s a Warden as well.”

“In that case, I’m pleased to hear of your good fortune,” Arl Mallory told him.

“You have a son?” Fergus asked, and this was how this worked? People just cut in on conversations like you were clanmates?

“I was surprised, as well,” Arl Mallory said. “He’s a sweet boy, only a year younger than Isar.”

Theron could see Fergus back-counting the years.

“Do you remember Morrigan?” he asked. “She helped us with the Blight.”

“The Chasind mage?”

“Yes, that’s Morrigan. She wanted a child-”

Not _technically_ a lie.

“-and I helped her with that. She’d planned to raise him herself, but being a single parent is difficult. She surprised Alistair and I at Vigil’s Keep when we came back from Denerim last fall.”

“Children are a blessing.”

“Yes, they are,” Theron agreed. “I miss him a lot, and it hasn’t been that long since he left.”

“An interesting choice for a mother. I wouldn’t have thought her the type.”

Arl Eamon was involved in this conversation now?

“ _I_ think it was very considerate,” Arl Mallory said. Were they arguing. That had sounded a bit pointed. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble Ludhild and I had trying to find that sort of assistance to have _our_ children. We could have used a few more men like Arl Theron.”

Creators, but being called that sounded _wrong._

“Thank you,” he told Arl Mallory, even though he wasn’t sure he felt complimented.

“I heard you’ve gotten engaged since last we saw each other,” Arl Alfstanna said. “Congratulations.”

“Is it to - ah, pardon, I’ve forgotten his name.”

And now Arl Bryland. Why was the whole room trying to talk to him at the same time. He didn’t know any of them well enough to manage something this large, there were six of them in this room, that was at _least_ two conversations, surely they could talk to each other instead.

“The Antivan?” Arl Eamon asked. “Zevran-”

“-Revasina,” Theron finished for him, because he didn’t need to be introduced by his old Crow House. “He’ll be at court with us.”

“Oh, so he _is_ back,” Fergus said. “How did his business in Antiva go?”

No, no. Not a question that needed asking _or_ answering. There _was_ a way to deflect questions like this, he’d _been there_ while Zevran had done it in other conversations-

He asked himself what Zevran would say, and came up blank.

Fergus smiled at him, a little tightly, and changed the conversation to the young women who would be attending court. Theron knew he should pay attention but all he wanted to do was sit down away from everyone else where it would only be convenient for one person at a time to talk to him, so he did that instead.

He’d connected with someone he’d had previous friendly interactions with. Politics accomplished, for now. He could work on doing better for next time. Zevran would be pleased when he got back from this meeting and told him about it.

A couple of minutes later Anora arrived, Erlina in her shadow with a thin sheaf of parchment leafs. She and Theron exchanged little nods of hello as a minute or two more was eaten up by the social formulas the other nobles went through to greet her, ask after her time, congratulate her on this or that, or-

“We must get to business,” she said, and everyone else finally sat down but for Erlina, who took up station just behind the Queen’s chair. “There have been _concerns_ about our empty Bannorns, and I felt it prudent to review our business. Particularly now that the Arl-Commander is _here_.”

He hadn't  _know._ He'd written a note like Zevran had told him to, explaining it. He'd  _said_ he was sorry.

“There has been talk,” Anora continued. “And the circulation of open letters-”

Circulation of whats?

“-and it seems that the Freeholders of Ferelden, and doubtless some of our lords-”

But there weren’t supposed to be that many of them any longer, why wouldn’t she know exactly who they were?

“-have the impression that we are to be overrun by foreign powers who wish to buy up our farmland and export our grain at cut prices to their lands.”

Arl Mallory crossed her arms.

“It’s what the Orlesians did,” she said. “ _I_ was twelve when Queen Moira took over the rebellion, and _my_ grandfather who was _her_ grandmother’s brother told me what the _“Orlesian Heartlands”_ had been like before they were supported off _our_ grain fields. When the Blight hit they nearly had riots in the cities over the bread prices, and the only thing that kept them down was that the Empress had called out the chevaliers to rattle their swords and stab the people who complained the loudest before winter was even over! They did it once and they’ll do it again!”

“I would hate to contradict the late Arl-Consort Camblair on this matter,” Arl Eamon said. “Given his certain expertise in the development of the Heartlands cities, given the numerous winters he spent in Halamshiral at the Emperor’s court, both before and after Reville Valmont had Queen Jamesina used for fertilizer in his winter gardens - but Orlais grows its own grain. The costs of buying land in the Bannorn, making it productive again, and _then_ shipping it in hopes of a profit, would be prohibitive.”

“The only thing anyone said was that they were Orlesians,” Arl Alfstanna said. “Not they were _sensible._ ”

“Insulting Orlais may be the favorite national pastime, but there has been an entire generation born and grown and with their own children since the end of the Occupation. On _both_ sides.”

“Exactly what I’d expect to hear from _you,_ ” Arl Mallory said.

“Your wife is foreign as well,” he replied. “But _I_ have never called your opinions about the Anderfels into question over _your_ relations, have I?”

“And Bryland’s second cousins with the Empress of Orlais,” she shot back. Arl Bryland did not look particularly enthused at being included in this exchange. “It’s _you_ that’s the problem, not your _wife._ ”

“Teyrn Cousland’s late wife was Antivan. You would not have questioned _him_ on the tariffs in Highever-”

“You leave my wife out of this,” Fergus said quietly.

Eamon inclined his head.

“Apologies, Your Grace. But the fact remains - we cannot move forward if we hold onto the hatred of the past. We cannot forget how close we came to disaster with the banning of the Wardens of Orlais.”

“ _Moving forward_ is a goal we should always strive for,” Anora cut in, and held out a hand. Erlina placed some of the parchment sheets in it. “I have heard these concerns, and to reassure our people, all foreign nobility who receive lands in Ferelden must swear this oath of loyalty.”

She gave Mallory and Eamon a sharp look.

“ _And_ the foreign spouses of Fereldan nobility.”

There was a parchment for everyone. Theron took his with curiosity, wondering what he’d be expected to swear.

_In my own voice and by my own name do I speak this oath to you, Anora Mac Tir who is Queen by the blessing of Andraste and the conviction of the Landsmeet, that I will be faithful to Ferelden, this land that is hallowed by time and tradition and tenancy of the people of the Maker’s Bride. I will be loyal to her interests and steadfast against her enemies. I will answer her call in war and I will follow her word in peace. I will not raise hand or heart against her or aid others in her abuse by secrecy or spycraft. In good faith am I granted my place; and in good faith do I accept my duties. So do I swear; and so do I renounce all other inheritances in lands outside of Ferelden, and all former oaths and loyalties to powers not of Ferelden._

Anora was speaking again, and there was more to the oath, last reaffirmations in the names of the Maker and Andraste, but Theron was stuck.

He couldn’t swear to this.

He’d already aided Ferelden and he would do so again if he needed. He could swear in the name of the Maker and Andraste without faith in them. But he _could not_ renounce his other oaths and loyalties.

He could not promise loyalty to Ferelden if the price was renouncing his oaths to the Dalish and to his gods.

It was a force of will not to reach up and touch his _vallas’lin_. If he did, the others would notice. Someone would ask what was wrong, and he knew enough to know that he shouldn’t say _anything_ about this until he’d talked to Zevran.

But if he didn’t swear this. Anora would do what she’d obliquely threatened earlier in the week, wouldn’t she, and take Amaranthine. Would the Wardens get to keep it? Who would be Warden-Commander after him- surely she wouldn’t want Alistair or Nathaniel as Commander.

Who would care about the Dalish? Dadhase’lin and Alas’nidar’mis still hadn’t arrived from Antiva and Rivain. If he wasn’t in Amaranthine to arrange their passage through Ferelden, how would they get to Hallarenis’haminathe? If he wasn’t in Amaranthine-

It was just like Zevran had said.

But if he renounced his oaths he renounced his place with his people and he _could not be an exile._

He had to pay attention to the meeting.

“So - onto your suitable lands.”

Suitable for what. Whose lands.

Erlina started handing Anora the other pieces of parchment. The Queen merely glanced at them, clearly having already memorized the names and simply having the parchments as a record for everyone else, the way the oaths had been.

“I myself have none. In the Teyrnir of Highever - the Bannorns of the Cloudhills, Highfarm, Lake Herd, Less Lake, and Shipfield.”

“I have some people in mind for all of them,” Fergus said, and she moved on.

“In the Arling of the Frostbacks - the Bannorn of the Fallow Mire.”

“Beyond me why anyone would _voluntarily_ take it,” Arl Mallory said. “I’d just as soon leave it to the Chasind.”

“It is a vital border bannorn!” Arl Eamon protested. “They’d be marauding into the farmlands without our presence there!”

“South Fort was _‘a vital border bannorn’_ too,” Arl Malloy retorted. “And that land's been in the hands of the Dalish elves for half a decade, and what trouble have we had? None. I’ve had _better_ places for my fainsmen to be than freezing their asses off in swamp muck in the Mire. There hasn’t been a _‘presence’_ there since the army left for Ostagar.”

“Which explains the rash of sheep rustling in the Hinterlands!”

“The Chasind _always_ go for sheep in the spring, Eamon, whether there’s guards posted or not, and we both know it!”

“If someone wishes to purchase the rights to the Fallow Mire, they are welcome to have them,” Anora cut in.

So they were discussing _more_ bannorns to sell? Not just farmland ones, in the Bannorn itself?

“In the Arling of South Reach,” she continued. “The Bannorns of Afton’s Valley, the Great Hills, Kinaessey, and Lothering.”

Had this been discussed previously? Had Anora been speaking to everyone else about selling Bann titles that were subordinated to the arlings and teyrnirs? What had he-

“There’s promise for Lothering and Afton’s Valley,” Arl Bryland said. “But I don’t like the options for the Great Hills or Kinaessey. They’re too important to risk.”

“Very well. In the Arling of Redcliffe – Red Valley. Perhaps others, as discussed?”

“No, Your Highness,” Arl Eamon said. “With South Fort dissolved for your land grant of Ostagar, there’s simply no more room. But Red Valley – yes.”

“In the Arling of Edgehall – the Bannorns of Clayne and Lakeport.”

“I’ve the same concerns about Lakeport as Bryland does for Kinaessey,” Elfstanna told her. “But I’ve made my decision on Clayne already.”

“Good,” Anora said, and looked very pleased.

He was next. Amaranthine was the only one that hadn’t been mentioned yet. What was he supposed to-

“Arl Mahariel,” the Queen said. “Have you thoughts on your bannorns?”

He didn’t, no one had told him to prepare.

“Arl Mahariel, you have _seven_ of them, and _six_ stand under your name as their Banns are dead.”

Yes he did. He knew that. At the moment, that was about _all_ he knew.

“Perhaps you require _assistance?_ The Bannorn of Arland’s Peace. The Bannorn of the Blackmarsh. The Bannorn of Hafterfields. The Bannorn of the Knotwood Hills. The Bannorn of the Wending Wood.”

He _knew_ what the names of his bannorns were!

“Have you _thoughts,_ Arl Mahariel?”

“There’s really nothing in the Blackmarsh,” he said, because it was all he was coming up with and everyone was staring at him and if he said something maybe they’d stop. “There’s ruins of the old town if anyone wants them. The Veil might still be unstable though. If it is they might get stuck in the Fade. We almost had that problem with Soldiers’ Peak, but it was more demons and undead than anything else. Anyway the only thing in Arland’s Peace _is_ Soldiers’ Peak, really. It’s all mountains.”

This was - all right, he could talk about the rest of the bannorns. Hopefully this would be good enough.

“The Knotwood Hills has sheep, mostly, you can’t farm easily there. And there’s Kal’Hirol so anyone who took it would have be on good terms with King Dace-”

_“Who?”_

“Jerrick Dace, the King of Kal’Hirol?”

“ _What_ is _Kal’Hirol,_ ” Anora demanded.

“It’s the thaig?” Theron said. “After the Blight, when the darkspawn were in Amaranthine, part of the Deep Roads caved in, in the Knotwood Hills, so we went to look, and drove out the darkspawn, and then after we’d gotten rid of the ones that had gained sentience-”

_“What?”_

“There were two of them, and one of them was making more, and they were having a little war with each other, that’s why there were darkspawn in Amaranthine City. After that’s when I left, and I after a while I went to Orzammar, because they were having a feast to commemorate the names of the dead we’d retrieved from Kal’Hirol, and Jerrick Dace had lost a cousin of his on an expedition to locate another thaig, and I went with him to find him, and we ended up being stuck in the Deep Roads for five months. We learned how to survive long-term and so Jerrick Dace led an expedition to reclaim Kal’Hirol and we helped from the other side, a little-”

“ _‘The other side’_?”

“The Deep Roads connect all the old thaigs, so they went through the route to Kal’Hirol from Orzammar and cleared it out and now my Wardens have an outpost in Kal’Hirol we help the Legion of the Dead guard the caravans. King Harrowmont doesn’t really like that isn’t king of Orzammar _and_ Kal’Hirol but Orzammar is pretty happy about having even just _one_ thaig connected again, and they’re still setting up, really. Once everything is settled we might push to Vigil’s Keep.”

“And _why_ would there be a push to Vigil’s Keep?”

“Because there’s a Deep Roads entrance in the basement? We don’t know where it came from but it has dwarven siege doors on it so someone knew about it at some point. That’s how the darkspawn got into the Vigil the first time. We closed it and they haven’t really come back yet but it would still be safer if it was clear.”

Everyone was still staring at him.

“Kal’Hirol trades for food from the farms in the Hafterfields,” Theron added. “So anyone who might be Bann there should have good relations with him, too.”

 _“Arl. Mahariel,”_ Anora said. “You mean to tell me that there are _two_ entrances to the Deep Roads in _your arling_ -”

“No, there are four of them. The old Tevene ruins in the Dragonbone Wastes open up into a big section of them, and the darkspawn broke through from the Roads into the silverite mines, but we have that one sealed up and it’s one of the duty rotations to patrol the deepest parts of them to make sure they’re still secure.”

“- _two places_ where the Fade touches the waking world-”

“We fixed Soldiers’ Peak. And the Blackmarsh should be all right now that it’s not being haunted by the soul of the baroness who got it during the Orlesian occupation. It turns out that she was a blood mage.”

“- _and_ an _entire new kingdom of the dwarves,_ and that _this is the first you **informing anyone of it!**_ ”

“I took care of the rest of it so it was never a problem; and it’s not the first time I’ve told anyone about Kal’Hirol, people have been trading with them since they got established. I thought everyone knew about it. And King Dace told me he wrote you a letter. Maybe someone mistook it for a letter from King Harrowmont somehow?”

**_“Warden-Commander-”_ **

“We have to write yearly reports to Weisshaupt,” Theron told her. “Even though I don’t think they actually read them. Should I send you copies?”

**_“Yes!”_ **

“I’ll have Nathaniel make some, then.”

Anora opened her mouth to speak again, stopped, and took a deep breath.

“Arl. Mahariel,” she said. “Is there _any_ bannorn in your arling which does not _currently_ have a spot that poses a potential threat to the safety of the rest of the area; or which has not in the _past_ posed such a threat, and could do so again in the future?”

Theron thought about it, matching the weakened areas of the Veil and the Deep Roads entrances to the bannorns.

“Montforest doesn’t have any problems that I know of.”

“Montforest _has_ its Bann still.”

“The Hafterfields seem all right.”

 _“Then,”_ Anora said. “For Amaranthine, Arl Mahariel, I expect that anyone you choose to fill the positions of Bann is _properly equipped_ to deal with such… _incidences._ ”

Oh. He didn’t have any ideas. He only knew Leandra Amell. The others had said there were some bannorns they didn’t have good candidates for – were they passing on appointing someone for those? Could _he_ do that?

She was mad at him again. He’d messed _today_ up, as well.

But at least it sounded like she wouldn’t move the Wardens, when she threw him out for not being able to swear her oath.

He had to come up with a way to ensure something for Hallarenis’haminathe.


	3. Chapter 3

Zevran had taken the morning after sparring to organize his thoughts, and somehow, in that period, Theron had left the estate. There was a letter of summons from Anora in his office, and Zevran was trying not to worry about what Theron was saying, off at the palace by himself.

He’d sent the letter off to Prince Estefan yesterday afternoon, and was dreading the reply. Surprisingly, though, that hadn’t turned out to be his most immediately pressing problem, today.

Yesterday he had also told his mother about Rinna and Tali, and her response had been-

Less than satisfactory.

When he’d told Theron, Theron had told him about Tamlen and the eluvian, and said that he was happy that Zevran wasn’t dead. When he’d told Alistair, over drinks up at Soldiers’ Peak a couple years later, Alistair had been more awkward about it, but sincere in that way he had, and had also hugged him because his friend _had_ been a little drunk.

When he’d told his mother, she’d barely reacted.

It had hurt. He’d told the whole story and gotten almost nothing in return and that _hurt._ He knew he had to address it with his mother.

He wanted to tell Theron about it and have Theron fuss and coddle him and tell him he was loved and deserved better. After that he could talk at Theron about how to speak to his mother.

Theron was still gone when lunch arrived. Damien came up with the food, stopped when he saw Zevran in Theron’s chair at his desk, and frowned very, very slightly. He was getting better at reading his half-brother, and that meant that he was _very_ disapproving.

“Shall I bring up a separate tray for you, Messere Revasina?”

“Damien, we are _brothers._ You can use my name.”

“I am in the employ of the Arl of Amaranthine-”

“Who is going to be your brother-in-law.”

“-and I will uphold the dignity of my position and his household, Messere Revasina.”

If nothing else, his brother had an _excellent_ impassive thousand-yard stare when he was at his most prim and proper. He played the role of upper-ranking servant very well, and Zevran had to respect that. It took _discipline_ to act that unaffected by anything, and presumably Damien hadn’t had anyone torturing him into it. Excellent self-control, his brother had.

As expected, though, it came with the accompanying levels of stubbornness.

Well, he was stubborn too! Damien would cave eventually, because no one could stoic _all_ the time.

“And I thank you for your assistance in this,” he told his brother. “He truly does not care enough for it.”

“As you say, Messere Revasina.”

“Are you enjoying Denerim?”

“It offers more amenities than Vigil’s Keep.”

Faint praise, but true nonetheless.

“Do you need anything, you or Tanis? I have plenty of money, and if it is time or-”

“We are managing perfectly well for ourselves, Messere Revasina.”

Pride. Very well.

“And the staff?”

“What about them, Messere.”

“Do you like them? Shianni is an invigorating personality, I am glad that she has this position. I must say that I do not know very much about Orana, but she seems a lovely woman-”

He was _blushing,_ high across his cheekbones!

“Mistress Archieros is exceedingly competent-”

Oh- _ho!_

“-and her company is pleasant-”

“I should hope that your interactions with each other are _exceedingly_ pleasant-”

“-and she is a gentlewoman of _good standing_ and I am _certain_ that her reputation is _sterling!_ ”

“You should tell her that you think her a gentlewoman,” Zevran told him. “I am certain that she will be very flattered. And be sure to compliment her! It is an important step-”

“I am taking no _steps,_ Messere Revasina!”

“It is one thing if I am mistaken and you do not wish to,” Zevran said. “But if it is not this, I will give you this advice - be gentle with her. Slavery does not treat people well. Everyone deserves the compliments and the gifts and the little presents but with her you must _woo._ Show her that she is as worthy as you find her. Treat her with all respect and kindness-”

“I would no such thing to the contrary!”

“Which is very good. You will go far and you will go far _with_ her-”

“ _I_ am going _nowhere! Her honor-_ ”

“Will not be besmirched by you, no? Yes, of course not, you are a gentleman. All these manners are charming in their own way, Damien, but if you are to progress any further you must _unwind._ Just a bit. Smile, perhaps. Bow over her hand, with the kiss-”

“I will maintain a _professional_ and _courteous_ demeanor during my interactions with the staff!”

“Damien,” Zevran said. “ _Haminisa_ , you are entirely too serious and I will tell you this - you are safe here and you do not need to put up these fronts and keep these distances. I wish you to be happy, no less.”

“I am happiest when I serve, Messere Revasina.”

And that was - that was _deeply_ uncomfortable.

He stood from the chair. Damien hadn’t been dismissed, so he continued standing there, stiff and straight and so very _proper._ His stare barely flickered when Zevran entered his personal space and lightly grasped his arms, just above the elbows.

“Look at me?”

Damien’s eyes slid from focusing somewhere over his shoulder to his face.

“I do not know what it is like for you, being a servant and elf-blooded,” Zevran told him. “But I was also raised in my profession and I do not wish you to be unhappy or suffering because of it. You are far more than what you do. Find what is happy and pleasing and do not let go of it.”

“There is pleasure in a job well done.”

“So there is; but it is also in good food or stories or company or surroundings, in art and creative endeavors, in simply having time alone to be quiet - you have many possibilities. Please, _haminisa,_ I am concerned about your wellbeing.”

Damien’s eyes had slid back over his shoulder.

“We’ve barely known each other a week.”

“Happily that does not matter. And we are brothers.”

Damien looked at him again. He was having thoughts, Zevran knew he had to be, but his blank expression was too good to tell _what._

He resisted the urge to sigh, and let Damien go. His brother stepped back, bowed, and walked out.

Zevran sat back down at Theron’s desk and ate Theron’s lunch and brooded. He’d finished and was considering taking the tray back down to the kitchen when Theron finally came back, with Alistair. Alistair was the one who walked in first, clearly fresh from the gardens, still wearing his gambeson and both swords.

Theron came in on his heels, with a purposeful and businesslike expression. He paused when he saw Zevran at his desk, and then burst into tears.

The chair scraped on the floor as Zevran shot up. Alistair had already taken hold of Theron by the time he’d crossed the room, but Theron turned away to cling to him, instead, sobbing: _“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m **sorry-** ”_

“What happened, _amora?_ ” Zevran asked urgently. Behind Theron, Alistair gestured to door that led to the reception room, indicating that they’d be more comfortable if they moved.

Zevran nudged Theron into walking. When they reached the couches in the reception room, Theron collapsed into one, dragging Zevran with him.

_“I’m sorry-”_

“For _what?_ ”

“-I can’t do it, I _can’t,_ but you _deserve_ all this, _I want to give it to you,_ but I’m going to lose the arling and I’m going to lose the Wardens but _you don’t deserve that,_ you should have it, all of it, you-”

“Theron, what are you _talking_ about?” Alistair cut him off. “You can’t _lose_ the Wardens! Wardens are always Wardens! And the arling’s not going anywhere.”

“Yes it _is,_ ” Theron said. “Anora is making anyone foreign who’s in the nobility or coming into the nobility swear an oath to give up their loyalties to everywhere but Ferelden and I _can’t,_ I _can’t be an exile-_ ”

“That pr-”

“What exactly does this oath say?” Zevran asked, trying not to be alarmed.

Theron wedged a hand between them and tugged a folded piece of parchment out from where he’d stowed it. It would have been awkward to unfold it and read it in this position, so Zevran took it and passed it off to Alistair. Theron returned to clinging.

“I’m sorry, I- I _want_ you to be High Lord of Amaranthine, I _want-_ ”

“Shhh, _amora._ ”

“Okay, hey, she can’t make you swear this,” Alistair said. “You’re a Warden, your first duty over everything else is _darkspawn._ This is nice and all, this stuff about putting Ferelden first, but that’s what’s in the Joining - _‘the duty that cannot be forsworn’_. And we’re supposed to do that duty _‘at any cost’._ She _can’t._ ”

“I don’t _care_ about my Warden oaths, I promised The People and the Creators _first_ and I _can’t_ but it’s like Zevran said if I’m not _here_ then no one _cares_ about the Dalish and what if I fail them _worse_ like that-”

“Andraste’s pyre, Zev, why would you _say_ that to him!”

“Because people make regrettable decisions when they are angry!” Zevran told him, and turned his attention back to Theron. “ _Amora,_ it will be all right. We will go to the Queen and I will swear this, and you will explain that it is prohibitive to the full scope of your duties as a Warden, and all will be-”

“But I swore the _Oath of the Dales_ -”

“And she does not know about that and it is not necessary _or_ wise to inform her of it if she does not need to be told. It could become very touchy. Wardens are safer - a known quantity. No one will lose anything, my dear.”

“No,” Theron said. “No I _will,_ Anora already told me earlier this week that she was doubting her decision to make me Arl and she yelled at me and now there’s _this_ and today she asked me what bannorns in Amaranthine would be reasonable to sell the title for and I couldn’t give her an answer about money so I started telling her about what I _did_ know about them and she didn’t know about the Architect or the Mother or how Blackmarsh was in the Fade or _Kal’Hirol,_ she didn’t know it existed or that it has a king and she was _very angry;_ and the only good thing is that I think it convinced her that the Wardens _have_ to stay so she won’t kick them out with me and that’s why I brought Alistair, because if I’m gone Nathaniel is Commander and I wanted to make him Constable after Nathaniel-”

“Woah, _hang on_ a minute,” Alistair said. “ _Me?_ You want to make _me_ officially third-in-charge of the Wardens?”

“It’s you or Oghren and Oghren is very good at being a Captain but I don’t think I could convince him to leave Kal’Hirol for very long, Felsi and Thrune are there-”

“There is a problem with that,” Zevran said, as he tried to absorb everything Theron had just gone through. Anora had _threatened_ Theron with taking the arling? She - well, she was Queen, she _could._ But surely she _wouldn’t?_ “Queen Anora has not seemed very keen on Alistair accumulating any sort of power. It might be best to keep him away from it. Perhaps - move him _far_ away.”

“Soldier’s Peak is already pretty far,” Alistair pointed out.

“True. And I suppose as far as Warden business goes you cannot get further, unless you were to relocate entirely. Though I doubt she would much like the idea of you moving to Orlais or the Free Marches better-”

Under him, Theron made a little broken noise.

“ _Amora_?”

“You wouldn’t want to move to Hallarenis’haminathe,” he answered. “I wouldn’t _make_ you but that’s where I’d go and you’d _hate_ it, you’d hate the weather and you’d miss the things human cities have and you’d be happier in, in the Free Marches or Nevarra or Rivain and you wouldn’t be Dalish and you’d be disappointed because you’d know what you could have had if, if I hadn’t been such an _idiot-_ ”

 _“Theron,”_ Zevran said. “Nothing is certain yet. You have hardly done enough to be stripped of anything.”

“But I _can’t swear-_ ”

“And have you spoken with her about it yet?”

_“No.”_

“Your performance has been somewhat _disappointing_  so far _,_ yes - but nobility does not stop being nobility simply because they are incompetent.”

“ _Other_ nobles were _born_ nobility-”

“And you stopped an entire Blight. I am not _certain_ that the Queen will not try to be rid of you, but I do think that it is _unlikely._ ”

It was a bit more like a hope, really. He didn’t think that Anora actively hated Theron. He was certain that she was _exasperated_ with him, yes, and also frustrated; but you needed more than that to get rid of a noble. This oath could be a sticking point - but they were already here, at court, and with minimum effort it could be turned into a major scandal.

And who would Anora put in his place? If she had not already resurrected Edgehall for Alfstanna Eremon, he felt that worrying would be justified. But Alfstanna, Fergus, and Theron were her power bloc. She had no one else to turn to. Even beyond having the other teyrnir and two of the arlings in her pocket, the fact would remain that Amaranthine was a major source of income, and one of the most important areas of Ferelden. She would not want to hand it over to a virtual, _foreign,_ stranger, as she could afford to do for the bannorns.

“However it would not hurt to be more proactive about your political efforts,” he said, because, well, it was true. “The more positive connections you have, the harder it will be to pry you out.”

“I _tried,_ ” Theron told him. “I asked Arl Mallory how her children were and we were having a conversation and everyone else butted in and it was _too much._ ”

“How many people was _‘everyone else’_?”

“Fergus and all the other Arls.”

“Theron, I’ve _been_ in conversations with you with more people than that,” Alistair said. “We had more people than around the campfire during the Blight - you didn’t have any trouble then.”

“That was just _people,_ it wasn’t _politics,_ I only had to keep everyone tolerating each other not- not all _these_ things, the, the _appearances_ and the _titles_ and the _lands_ and nobility and- I don’t even _know_ -”

Was _that_ really the problem here? Had he not made this very clear already?

“Theron,” Zevran said. “Our group during the Blight - that _was_ politics. The _point_ of politics is to keep people tolerating each other, at least when it is not being used for manipulation, but I do not believe that anyone is out to get you here. You have not had enough contact with anyone _to_ make enemies. All of this has been so _incredibly_ frustrating because I _know_ that you can do this, and do it very well, because I have seen you do it time and time again with the Wardens, and you simply have _not_ been doing it with the nobility.”

“No,” he insisted. “No, no I can’t do it; I don’t understand it and it’s _too big-_ ”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure the Archdemon was bigger,” Alistair said. “I got a good close look at it.”

“No, this is _much worse,_ ” Theron said. “We were never _responsible_ for anything during the Blight, we were just trying to _help,_ if it didn’t work it wasn’t _our fault._ ”

“I’m… pretty sure it would have been our fault. As, y’know, _the last Wardens in Ferelden,_ and all that.”

“But there were other Wardens who _could have come,_ everyone else had _plenty of time_ to come, _everyone knew,_ but there’s not another _me_ and it’ll be _my fault!_ ”

He was getting louder and louder, and closer to screeching. This was very much not like him - he had been _this_ worried, this entire time, and he hadn’t said anything? It sounded as though it had been building.

Zevran remembered how long it had taken for Theron to turn up again, and formed a suspicion.

“Theron? Did you come back to the estate directly from the palace?”

“ _No,_ I was trying to come up with a way for things to be all right and they _won’t_ be, I walked all over the Palace District thinking about it, _twice._ ”

“So what I am hearing is that you have been stewing in this so long that you can no longer be reasonable about it,” Zevran said. “Stop. You must distract yourself. Have you finished your paperwo-”

His mind flashed to the empty lunch tray still on Theron’s desk.

“When is the last time that you ate?”

“There were little pastry things at the palace-”

“So breakfast. It is past lunch. Up - you are hungry-”

“No I’m not.”

 _“Oh really,”_ Alistair said. “Care to share how you found the cure to the Taint walking around the Palace District, then? I bet _that_ would make Anora happy with you.”

“I’m _not,_ I’m too _worried_ to be hungry-”

Zevran sighed, and sat up, pulling on Theron to get him to move.

“That only means that you are too distracted to realize that you are hungry. _Up._ Everything will be more manageable once you have food.”

* * *

Eirlin was still in the stable when Tanis went to go check, so Nehna hadn’t left, as she’d started to fear, when she hadn't come to bed the night before.

She asked in the kitchens on her way back and they said that Nehna had come by for food. So she was eating.

Which meant she was hiding. There were only so many places in the estate, though, so where-

She checked the gardens again, and the drawing rooms, and the ballroom, and the Amaranth salon on the first floor, and the servants’ work rooms; but all she found was Diego in the still room, poking through the glassware equipment and the cupboards of finished soaps, polishes, washes, oils, and dried herbs.

These children got _everywhere._ The Vigil’s roof, locked rooms, window ledges - she was just _waiting_ for the day when someone had to get Satheraan to coax them down from the kitchen beams because they were making the maids nervous. It was already bad enough when Tiar lurked in the corner by the porridge hearth before dawn, scowling suspiciously at everything.

“Diego, have you seen Nehna today?”

“No.”

She put her fists on her hips.

“And what is that jar?”

He edged it further back into the cabinet.

“Sulphur.”

“Do you need it for something?”

“I could make the gardens grow nicer.”

“That sulphur is for the laundry and you are going to ask Chamberlain Tabris before you take any for your plants. _Ask_ before you come in here, next time, because she is the one in charge of the keys for this room.”

He closed up the cabinets and yes, there were the picks as he conscientiously re-locked all of them, and then the still room.

She would ask for divine favor to keep them out of the estate treasury, but they’d had enough days that they’d probably already broken in. At least she was mostly certain that they wouldn’t have stolen anything.

It was getting to lunchtime. If Nehna was going to get food, and also avoid her, now would be the time. Tanis went quickly to the kitchen, Diego following behind - but no Nehna, just Damien coming back from the Arl’s study to retrieve his own meal.

“ _There_ you are,” he said, when he saw Diego. “Mistress Archieros is _waiting_ for you.”

Diego dashed off.

“Have _you_ seen Nehna?” she asked her son.

“No,” he told her, in Orlesian. “I have not seen the Arl, either. I brought him his lunch but Messere Revasina was the only one there.”

“Damien, he is your brother.”

“He is going to be married to our employer and I will treat him as such!”

_“Damien.”_

“ _Maman,_ he is hardly my brother.”

“He is, and he will be twice over if Nehna marries me.”

 _“That,”_ he said, taking his allotment of food from the sideboard. “Would be _different._ ”

Now if only she could _find_ Nehna to ask her!

They lingered in the kitchen over food - or rather she lingered, waiting for Nehna for as long as she could afford to put off going up to the Arl and Captain Mac Maric to help them understand court manners, and Damien stayed because he had no other orders and wanted to stay with her.

She was about to give up on waiting and go upstairs for the afternoon lessons when Satheraan, the Arl, and Captain Mac Maric walked into the kitchen.

Satheraan pointed at the sideboard, looking straight at his fiancé, and said: _“Eat.”_

Tanis had never seen Damien look so affronted in his entire life.

“If he is being so unreasonable, you should speak to him about it,” Tanis told him, still in Orlesian. “He is more like Dame Anhuis than the Duchess.”

“It would be presumptuous and improper,” he said stiffly, and got up and left while the Arl’s back was turned. It was the rudest he’d been to nobility since he’d been a small child barely able to walk.

Perhaps if today the Arl’s lesson was on the proper ordering of his household.

It turned out not to be. She spent a number of fruitless hours going over money and finances with him. He insisted, as did Satheraan, that he had to learn this, but while she could tell him how much things cost and how many silver and copper each level of servant made, but it was clear to everyone that he still didn’t _understand._

She retired to her room after dinner tired and slightly frustrated to finally, _finally_ find Nehna, sitting on the bed and waiting for her.

“I spent all morning looking for you,” she said.

“I heard.”

“So where _were_ you?”

“I went out to the city,” Nehna told her. “Looked around the markets. It doesn’t look like I’m going back south soon, so I should keep checking on the prices. I-”

Tanis started taking off her top layer. She was still using her Marcher dresses, the rest of her and Damien’s things having been sent over by the Arhuises, because the city tailors good enough to make the quality of dresses she needed were shoving all commissions that weren’t for nobility down to the bottom of their list. They hadn’t gotten their first month’s pay yet - they didn’t have the sort of money needed to convince anyone to give their orders higher priority.

“I was avoiding Satheraan,” Nehna admitted. “He talked to me yesterday about a problem he has. And I messed it up. It’s tied up in something that happened when he was- when he was with the Crows, and I didn’t- I don’t-”

“You don’t want to know how he was hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“ _No!_ I just- I didn’t even tell him I was _sorry,_ he was talking about how he hurt and I couldn’t come up with anything- I couldn’t _feel_ anything-”

This again.

Tanis sat down next to her on the bed.

“You love him, Nehna.”

“ _Do_ I?” she asked bitterly. “If I do then why is it like _this-_ ”

“Because you’re used to acting like this!” Tanis snapped. “You’re always running away! Would it _kill you_ to just _stay_ for once!”

“Tanis-”

“I _know_ you never would have been happy in Lydes, Nehna, I _know_ you had good reasons to stay away but it was _four years_ before I heard from you after we escaped and then it was _ten years_ before you came to see us again and then you _left_ and you left you left in Amaranthine and all I wanted was more time and I know I’m never going to get it!”

“Tanis?”

“I know- I know life has taken us different places but I _love you_ and it _hurts,_ that you’re never there, and-”

And she’d been looking for Nehna to ask if they could get married but she _knew,_ right in this second, all at once, that if she said anything, it would go poorly.

She couldn’t risk that. She couldn’t. If Nehna _really_ left-

“-and it _hurts.”_

 _Love me,_ she wanted to say. _Prove you love me and **try.**_

“I always-”

“Will you _stop!_ ” Tanis demanded. “ _It happens,_ Nehna! People get hurt! You get close to people and people get hurt because people do that to each other and you _live with it!_ ”

Nehna recoiled.

“I am _not_ going to _‘live with it’-_ ”

“This isn’t about Antiva and Orlais!” she screamed. “This is about _you!_ You didn’t want Damien- _fine!_ He’s _my_ son and I love him and I’m so blessed to have him and I’m glad you gave him to me but you _wanted_ to love Salladin! And you _didn’t,_ and you wouldn’t give her up, and you _wanted_ Satheraan back! That’s all you’ve wanted for _years,_ Nehna, and _ever since_ I saw him again at Vigil’s Keep I’ve been- _I’ve been waiting for you to be the woman I fell in love with again!_ ”

“Well _I’m_ never going to be that person and all _I_ want is the son I lost in Antiva so I guess we’re _both_ never getting what we want!”

There was a moment of silence, as what Nehna had screamed back hung in the air between them, and then Nehna turned and walked out because this was what she _did,_ she _ran away._

They must have yelled loudly enough to be heard through the walls, because Damien came in from his room next door and held her, silently, while she cried.

* * *

They could hear the arguing through the walls. Crows didn’t yell like this- the only time Diego could remember where he’d heard people be so loud was the first night in Rialto, when Master Arainai had spent so long screaming about the Crows.

No, he didn’t want to be called that. He should be thinking about him as  _Maestra_ Revasina.

Except that didn’t sound right. He refused to be a Crow, but- he was _Zevran Arainai,_ he’d killed three Grandmasters and a couple Talons and probably a lot of regular Crows, and he _couldn’t_ be anything but _‘Master Arainai’_. He was even the only one who could lay claim to the title.

The only thing was that Crow Masters hurt people. And Master Arainai would never hurt them. He knew Tiar was trying to pretend she didn’t think that but _he_ knew. So he maybe wasn't, then. Anyway,  _Maestra_ Revasina was the safest person in the _world._

And one wall over Mistress Daganiri was yelling and he didn’t _like_ it. It shouldn’t be scary. He’d almost died a lot of times and he’d killed people and they’d run away from the Crows and they’d thought that _Maestra_ Revasina was _dead,_ but Mistress Daganiri was yelling and he wanted it to stop.

 _Maestra_ Revasina would stop it. He was very good at making people feel better.

The Arl’s room was very close, closer than it looked when you used the hallways. But this was the Arlessa’s suite and it had a secret passage to the bedroom, he and Tiar had found it when they were looking around, and that was when they’d chosen this room to sleep in. It was how he knew Tiar was lying about not trusting _Maestra_ Revasina.

It turned out that _Maestra_ Revasina and the Arl did not know about the secret passage. But all he had to do was say: “Mistress Daganiri is yelling,” and _Maestra_ Revasina came right away, and the Arl followed him because that was what he did.

It hadn’t even taken a minute to fetch them but Mistress Daganiri was even louder now, and then _Maestra_ Revasina's mother yelled back and _Maestra_ Revasina’s entire expression crumbled and the Arl grabbed him from behind, tightly around his waist, and Diego knew that the Arl wasn’t about to hurt _Maestra_ Revasina but he still had to remind himself of that because the Arl _looked_ like he was going to hurt someone.

 _Maestra_ Revasina showed what he was feeling on his face whenever he could, and he meant it, and that was part of why he was safe. But the Arl didn’t do that very much and it was okay when the sudden change was him smiling or being sadder but he’d heard _all_ the stories about the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. _Maestra_ Revasina was going to marry him and he’d acted happy the first time he’d met him and Tiar so he probably wasn’t _awful._

But.

When he looked like that and said: “ _That’s_ why I hit her,” all hateful like that. Even if _Maestra_ Revasina had folded his own arms over the Arl’s and was pressing into him like that was the thing holding him up.

Tiar was creeping towards lurking over him protectively but. It was going to be all right. _Maestra_ Revasina was here and he wouldn’t let them get hurt.

 _Maestra_ Revasina was hurting and there were things he did, when one of them was scared or upset.

So Diego darted forward and hugged him and told him: “I like you how you are.”

 _Maestra_ Revasina put an arm around him and told him: “Thank you, Diego.”

He’d done a good thing. He’d helped.

 _Maestra_ Revasina and the Arl started talking quietly in Dalish and Diego kept holding him, until _Maestra_ Revasina leaned back and got a kiss. That was it for the night - _Maestra_ Revasina said goodnight and told them to sleep well and they left back through the secret passage.

Tiar spoke up after they were gone.

“He wouldn’t want her dead or maimed,” she said. “And we’ll get in trouble if we wreck anything so that it can’t be fixed. But we can still trash her room after the maid stops by tomorrow.”

Diego thought about what he’d found in the still room, and agreed. He could do a lot with what was in those cabinets.

* * *

Nehna woke up in the morning in Eirlin’s stall in the hay nest she’d made for herself the night before to find that Eirlin was using her for a pillow and that Satheraan was sitting on a milking stool in the other corner of the stall, arms crossed and expression-

She rolled over so she wouldn’t have to see. She knew before he said: “I heard you and Tanis last night,” that he had.

“I am thirty-three, _Mamae_ ,” he said. At least he was speaking El’vhen. They were in public, and no one else would know what he was saying. “I am not a child any longer, and I can never be again. You are not the same as I remember, but I still love you and I will not wish you otherwise. You have been hurt and that changes people and also it has been three decades and simply living life also changes people. But if you cannot do the same for me, I... I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

This was Salladin all over again.

“I love you, _Mamae,_ very dearly, and that will not change. But I will not subject myself to someone who would have me be other than I am. I have lived too much of my life such.”

“I _told_ him he shouldn’t make me come back,” she said, staring at the wooden side of the stall. “I knew I’d hurt you.”

She heard him take a breath.

“For knowing that,” he said. “I am not sure that I can say that you put much effort into making it otherwise.”

“I hurt Salladin so badly that she hates me,” Nehna told him. “With you I- I’ve never been a good mother. I _can’t_ be a good mother.”

“If you were not then how can I have good memories of you?”

“Because you were a _child_ and children don’t know any better!”

“Oh, children know plenty better, _Mamae_ ,” he said, tone sharpening. “They learn very quickly who will hurt them and who will not. _You_ would not have hurt me.”

But she would now, was the clear unspoken part of that sentence.

“So you were not a good mother for Damien or Salladin. You were for me, so these things you say about yourself are untrue. The impression that I am getting is that you _want_ me to hate you.”

If Satheraan hated her like Salladin did-

“ _No._ No, _da’len_ , _no_ \- please-”

“Good. Because I refuse to. And I have already told you this _Mamae_ , but I am going to say it again - I will not hate you because you hate yourself. And you must work on that, because _this_ is what hating yourself does. You hurt other people so that they will hate you or be angry at you too because you cannot stand their care or forgiveness or love or whatever it is that they are offering you.”

“And you-”

“I know because _I_ have done this,” Satheraan cut her off. “I did it to Taliesin, after Rinna, because I hated myself for it. I wanted to die, _Mamae_ , and I stopped being careful and stopped trying to win and the only reason I made it out of Antiva is because Tali worked three times as hard to make it look like we were doing fine, and the only reason I survived coming to Ferelden is because Theron has a soft heart.”

“He doesn’t seem very soft.”

“That is because he does not like you very much - and do _not_ say something about that being reasonable, it is _not,_ he was very prepared to welcome you and the two of you have had a bad first impression which can be fixed if you both put some effort into it!”

“I have heard what he did to the Crows. I don’t think he forgives when you’re the one hurt.”

“That was entirely different.”

“And what am I supposed to do to make him like me, then?”

“At dinner yesterday I had been considering asking you to help with his issue of not being able to understand money,” Satheraan said. “He _finally_ cares enough to put the effort in but there is a problem somewhere and I cannot see it properly. You have been trading in the south - to my knowledge the Chasind are like the Dalish and do not have much use for coin but you have turned _them_ into merchants.”

Satheraan wanted this. This was something easy - just money and numbers. She could do this for him.

“I’ll try,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now tell me something.”

Nehna waited for the rest of the sentence, but it never came.

“What?” she asked after a couple of moments.

“Tell me something,” Satheraan repeated. “I have told you things that hurt me. So you tell me something. _One_ thing, _Mamae._ I do not particularly care what it is.”

There was so much to choose from, and all of she didn’t want to talk about, or he shouldn’t have to hear about it, or-

But he was asking.

“The Keeper for Talanulea,” she finally said, mouth dry. “I was scared and I told him everything that had happened. And then he told the whole clan. If he wanted me out he should have just told me to leave. You’re supposed to be able to tell the Keepers and Hahren things and not have them tell anyone else.”

“It is very hurtful when people share your secrets,” Satheraan agreed. “I am sorry. Thank you for telling me. Now I suggest that you go and get changed, because those are the same clothes you were wearing yesterday and now they will smell of halla.”

Eirlin snorted.

“Not everyone will find it pleasant,” Satheraan informed him tartly.

He helped her pick the hay out of her clothes and walked with her back up to her room. Nehna got the feeling that she was being watched, so that she couldn’t go hide somewhere again.

“I will speak to Theron,” Satheraan told her as they reached her door. “There were other things that could have been done today for court tomorrow but I will not let the opportunity for having him properly _learn_ money slip-”

Nehna opened the door and shrieked. She’d barely gotten a look at the room - in disarray, drawers pulled out of cabinets and chests standing empty - when her eyes and throat started _burning._ It smelled like onions and the Sulfur Lakes, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t _breathe-_

Satheraan pulled her away from the door and slammed it shut.

“No,” he said, trying to pull her hands from her face. He was groping around, could he- it had gotten him too, hadn’t it, what was going on she couldn’t _breathe-_ “ _Do not_ rub your eyes, it will make it worse- _some assistance, please!_ ”

The Arl had to be especially alert to Satheraan’s voice, to arrive so quickly from his office.

_“Satheraan-!”_

“Water from the kitchen pump, and clean cloths and some bowls and a little soap, and steep peppermint tea and have it brought up.”

The little wheezing breaths she could take weren’t _enough-_

“Slowly, _Mamae,_ slowly and as deep as you can,” he told her, squeezing the hand he’d caught and he was _calm,_ how was he- “Sit down. It will be fine. The children were upset by you and Tanis arguing yesterday, and it seems I will have to address that. This is an old Crow trick. A specially-prepared mix in a glass jar tossed off a roof into a street will scatter a crowd, and you may pick off your target from the safety of the roofs in the confusion. It is rather brute and unskillful, but it gets the job done, and there are times when the Crows want the fear and the disruption rather than a death to make a point. There is a story about the monks of Treviso-”

He kept talking to her and reminding her how to breathe until the Arl came back, trailing worriedly behind Damien, who had actually found most of what was needed. Satheraan talked him through how to gently flush away the irritant with the fresh water, and told her to thoroughly wash her hands and face with the soap and drink the tea.

The tea was very, very strong, but it worked. Between the fading burning sensation and the warmth of the water and the peppermint taste, her throat loosened up.

“The children, please,” Satheraan said, once Damien had finished rinsing his eyes out and handed him his tea. Damien frowned at the door and stood, striding down the hallway with purpose. Satheraan bent over his tea and took some deep breaths of the steam as the Arl rubbed circles into his back. He coughed twice, deliberately, before straightening.

“Are you all right?” he asked Satheraan.

“Perfectly fine now,” he assured him. “Here - my mother is going to help you with your money problem today, Theron.”

He frowned at her. She glared back.

“Stop that, both of you,” Satheraan said. “Theron, have you apologized for hitting her yet?”

“I don’t want an apology,” Nehna said. “If he hadn’t forced me to come I wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t mean it if he said it.”

“Good,” the Arl said. “I didn’t want to apologize to you anyway. I’m not sorry and I’d do it again.”

_“Theron!”_

“I’m not and I would, I’m not going to _lie_ about it.”

“Then will you both agree to let it _go?_ ” Satheraan demanded.

“We just did,” Nehna said.

Damien returned with the children then, and Tanis behind them, who pushed past to kneel next to her.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine now.”

“Diego,” Satheraan said, voice stern. “Tell me what you did wrong here.”

The boy was staring at the floor, practically cowering.

“I made you angry,” he whispered.

“No. I am displeased. I am not angry. Try again.”

He kept staring at the floor, silently, making himself look small.

“She made you and Mistress Daganiri upset!” the girl said suddenly. “It was my idea!”

“I am not interested in whose idea it was Tiar, I am _interested_ in that it occurred at all.”

“He just gave me the stuff!”

 _“Tiar,”_ her son said. “I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to hurt Diego. Stop trying to take his guilt. I want to know if you know why what you did was wrong.”

“Because you didn’t like it.”

“That is still not the correct answer.”

Her son was… parenting.

“Diego, if you knew enough to make this mixture, then I know you also know how to make poisons- and what is the rule with poisons?”

He cringed, and said very quietly: “Deliver them directly.”

“And what did you do here?”

“Leave them to luck.”

“And if you had been meant to set this trap-?”

“I should have followed the rules,” he answered, nearly crying.

“Yes you should have,” Satheraan said, and his expression fell a touch. “Diego - come here.”

The boy glanced up and froze when he saw Satheraan’s arms open and held out to him. But after a moment, he crept into the hug. The girl followed him but didn’t sink down to the floor with them, looming just within arm’s reach.

“Now can either of you answer the question of why this was not appropriate behavior?”

The boy answered for them, shaking his head mutely. They were a mess, these children.

“It is because when someone upsets us, we talk about it and resolve the problem. We do not terrorize people to make them upset in return.”

“Talking doesn’t work,” the girl said.

“Sometimes it does not,” her son agreed. “However those times are far fewer than a life with the Crows would lead you to believe and it is something you must learn, how to tell one from the other. This was not one of them. Now - you do not have to tell me _where_ you have hidden my mother’s things but I expect them to all be in Tanis’s room by lunchtime, and the two of you will have this room habitable and back in proper order by dinner tomorrow. Begin by airing out the room- with the windows, and not the door. No one else needs to be subjected to that.”

“No punishment?” the boy asked quietly, hesitantly.

“Fixing this is your punishment,” Satheraan said, gently pushing him out of the hug so they could stand. “I said I was not going to hurt you and I mean to keep that promise. Go - and be careful opening the windows, I do not want you falling off the wall.”

The boy vanished, off into a different room and presumably out the window. The girl stood a moment longer, still defensive and stiff - but then she lunged forward, caught Satheraan in a brief, fierce hug, and was gone as well.

For a second, her son stood there with stunned surprise all over his face; but then he smiled, beaming.

“You should tell them you love them,” Nehna told him.

“I do not want to scare them, _Mamae_ ,” he said. “And it was wrong of them but- that was a _surprisingly_ good trap, very unexpected, and from a purely technical standpoint this was a difficult operation. Tiar would have had to make the trap trigger and components herself, and that mix is properly made with peppers and onion juice, it was clever of Diego to replace it with sulfur dust. You know the way that they were taught to do these things presumes that they have the resources of a House to draw on, this was very good improvisation!”

The Arl was smiling now too, at him, and wrapped his arms around Satheraan’s waist and kissed him on the cheek.

“Proud _Papà_ ,” he teased.

Her son’s smile lost some of its brightness, and Nehna left them to have their moment.

“I’m sorry for last night,” she told Tanis.

Tanis looked sad and disappointed still, but hugged her anyway.

* * *

The money lesson started later than the other ones had, because of the morning. Theron was perfectly happy to have it like that. Yesterday with Tanis and Alistair and Zevran had left him feeling stupid, to say nothing of the meeting with Anora.

So a loaf of good fresh bread cost you three copper and a decent farm horse was twenty-seven silver and one gold fifty silver was a standard four ounce bottle of amaranth dye on the market in Amaranthine City, or the cost of armoring a poor knight. Things were _expensive,_ he understood _that._ But all this was just numbers, and he could add and subtract all anyone liked but that didn’t mean he _understood_ how much any of that was!

He felt stupid all over again when Zevran went over with his mother what he’d been told about money, not just the day before but back as far as Zevran could remember, which turned out to be when he’d wanted to donate his share of the group money to the alienage a couple weeks before the Blight reached Denerim and Zevran had made him change the gold down at the docks for smaller coins before taking it over.

Nehna stood there looking at the papers Tanis had had him do calculations on the day before for a couple minutes after Zevran had finished.

“What’s the most expensive thing in a clan?” she finally asked.

“A wedding aravel,” he answered promptly. _This,_ he knew.

“There is a special type of aravel for a wedding?” Zevran asked.

“No, it’s just a new one,” Theron told him. “It comes with the household items. It’s the clan’s gift to a new marriage.”

“And how much do you think it costs?” Nehna asked.

 “Six gold?” he guessed. That was a bit less than the price of two sets of full Warden silverite plate for a warrior like Alistair. An aravel was bigger than a person, and a whole new household had to be worth more than a set of armor, but everyone said that silverite was expensive.

“Let’s go find out,” Nehna said.

Damien ambushed him on his way to find his cloak with said item of clothing. Properly it went with his armor, but it was a nice Warden blue and there was no point wearing it _only_ with the armor.

“Shall I have the horses brought, Your Arlship?”

“No, we’re walking,” Theron told him. “I don’t think we’ll be leaving the city, we won’t need them.”

He went to meet Zevran and Nehna by the door only to find Damien already there, in his own coat, handing Zevran his.

“Don’t you have other things to do?”

“Yes,” Zevran told him. “But I have decided to supervise this instead. And I will be able to check on the merchant factor from the market anyhow.”

He’d really been asking Damien, but okay.

Surprisingly, Nehna seemed known in the East Market, in the merchant’s quarter. The city guards gave her less notice than any other elf, and only looked twice at her because their eyes slid past her before they belatedly realized that _he_ was walking with her and hadn’t been saluted.

Theron would rather they just let it go if they didn’t do it right away, because this way just attracted even more attention. He was getting enough from the stallkeepers, and people kept stopping to bow or curtsey and say hello and he would have been happy to say hello back, except that people turned it into a _thing._

He stuck close to Zevran and stayed quiet, letting Zevran handle the people at the stalls trying to sell him things, and just smiling briefly at the people who said hello.

They passed the market proper and Nehna took them to a warehouse. The warehouse manager and the merchants were very deferential up until they realized that Nehna was the one asking questions, and that they were reasonable questions. _Then_ things got businesslike.

The price of the wood for an aravel came out to twenty-three silver thirty-six copper, with an additional fifty copper for the wood stain and weathering sealant.

Next Nehna took them to a warehouse closer to the docks, full of fabric. It took some explaining to get across that when she said _‘aravel sails’_ she wasn’t looking for canvas but tough wool or heavy linen, but eventually she found something that she said would be _‘acceptable’_ for the awnings and weather coverings.

That was two silver sixteen copper. The big smithies by the mouth of the river gave a price of one silver sixty-seven copper for nails and metal fittings.

They went back to the market and Zevran left them for a while to speak to someone in the Merchants’ Guild hall. A circuit of the market yielded the estimated prices of two silver for iron and copper cookware and twenty-seven silver for the wedding trousseau- the ceremonial clothes for the wedding itself, and the blankets and pillows and furs to furnish the aravel.

Zevran returned as Nehna was describing the dimensions of the large chests the majority of the household items would be packed into when the aravels were moved. The carpenter thought about it, remarked that you’d want a hardwood for that, and then said that it would probably be about four silver eighty copper.

A bit of searching on the roads off the main market located the hall of the Weavers’ Guild- which was not the same as the Dyers’ and Weavers’ Guild in Amaranthine, Zevran explained to him when he got confused about the guild mark on the hall sign, because the weavers and dyers of Amaranthine stubbornly maintained their own joint guild, separate from any other in country, and financed their stubbornness with the wealth working with amaranth made them.

The weavers said that a large rug, the full size of one of the big upright looms that were best used by two people, would be fifteen silver thirty-one copper.

“I once had an Orlesian trader who I trust about metalworking offer me three silver thirty-one copper for the brass samovar I had the Chasind get from the Dalish,” Nehna said.

She added that price to the rest, and then looked at him.

“That’s seventy-eight silver twenty-five copper for a wedding aravel.”

_Seventy-eight silver._

Not even _one_ gold. The most expensive thing he would have ever owned and it wasn’t even worth _one gold._

The horse he’d ridden here on cost more than a wedding aravel. Equipping a Warden cost more than a wedding aravel. A wedding aravel couldn’t buy you a set of light armor, you’d need _more than one,_ even for a rogue-

A bottle of amaranth dye the length of his index finger from base of knuckle to tip of fingernail cost _two whole_ wedding aravels!

The silverite armor he’d commissioned for Zevran had cost five or six!

He could pay for every wedding aravel made in Sabrae until _Kieran_ got married, and probably well past that, with the amount of money he’d spent fixing the walls of Vigil’s Keep - he could have bought everything the clan owned and probably still have money left for the amount of gold that he’d paid Voldrik Glavonak!

“We made more than that on some of our selling trips to get rid of what we scavenged during the Blight!” Theron realized, horrified. “And we were just- just picking things up!”

“I recall that we sometimes went quite out of our way to _‘just pick things up’_ ,” Zevran said, and this was not amusing! That was the _wrong tone_ for talking about this!

“One gold is _so much money, Satheraan!_ ”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“I make-” That number was _so big_ _now,_ it was utterly inconceivable. “I make _so much money_ on taxes and tolls and all those things, that you’ve told me about, with the laws and- _I’ll never spend it all!_ ”

“You are at court now,” Zevran said. “You will spend quite a bit.”

_“Not that much!”_

“There are nobles who go bankrupt with the sort of money you have.”

“Then they’re worse with money than I am!”

“No, they are simply working very hard to upstage their associates.”

“I don’t _need_ this much money!” Theron said, appalled. “I can make enough just bringing things back from expeditions and selling them!”

“Which you really do not have to do-”

“I could give money to every alienage in the country!”

“Ah, no,” Zevran said. “No you could not. None of them are actually on your lands.”

“It’s _charity -_ fine, the one here-”

“You are already employing a significant portion of them.”

“Then we should pay them more!”

“Your household is already _extremely well paid,_ Your Arlship,” Damien said.

“What about the Vigil, we should- Satheraan stop laughing at me.”

“The Vigil is paid at the same rate as the estate,” Zevran said, still chuckling. “It is- ah, _of course_ you would finally learn the value of money and your impulse is to continue giving it away.”

“Other people need it more than I do,” Theron said. “And now I know how much they can do with it.”

“You are a wonderful, ridiculous man,” Zevran told him, and kissed him. “And I am glad that I have you.”

* * *

The letter had been sitting on their side table since she’d opened it, assuming from the seal that it was another invitation to a party. In her mirror, where she was brushing out her hair to rebraid it for the night, she saw Estefan brooding on it again.

“We will not be able to avoid him tomorrow,” Zashira said. “I would rather Haida stay here.”

“It wouldn’t protect her,” her love said.

It wouldn’t - they knew that from bitter experience. Their ninth child had been murdered in her crib, deep within the Old Palace of the Nevarran royal family, a stronghold meant to defend against dragons and Tevenes alike and still manned as though the King expected a war with either. One of Claudio’s Crows had gotten in and out anyway, with nothing to show for his passing but some black feathers in the crib and Axamache’s blue face, discolored from the poison that had made her choke on nothing.

She would have been twelve this year.

“If she’s at court with us, everyone will be watching,” Estefan continued. “He can’t do anything to her out in the open.”

“This is _his_ place,” Zashira reminded him bitterly. “Who would stop him?”

“We are guests of the Queen.”

She slammed her hairbrush down on the vanity.

“And _his_ letter came in the hands of a servant wearing the colors of the man who put her on her throne! We picked Ferelden because the Wardens the Crows could not touch are here, and- and it is because they have a Crow of their own!”

Estefan came up behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Zashira-”

“ _Ten children,_ Estefan, and the Crows have killed _nine_ of them! Haida is the right age to be taken and _now_ a Crow appears?”

“He didn’t try to hide-”

“Oh, and Crows never _deceive!_ ” she spat. “And for all his nice words, did he ever give assurance that he would not hurt _Haida?_ ”

Estefan’s hands fell away because they both knew he hadn’t.

“I am trying to hope,” he said quietly, and Zashira met his eyes in the mirror. She could still just remember a time when he’d never looked so tired, resigned - when they’d been young together and the lines of human age had yet to set in and become deeper and deeper with sorrow. “I cannot stand to lose another child.”

Zashira wasn’t sure she could, either - but she’d seen her first six children stolen by treaty, the seventh and eighth carried away by Crows out of their country villa, and her ninth murdered in her crib. Haida had been an unexpected baby, late in life, and Zashira had given birth to her wondering when the Crows would take her, too.

Once, for a scant handful of years, she’d had hope. Rinna had been the only of her first six to survive. They’d seen their eldest twice after she’d graduated, both times briefly, and Zashira had _hated_ seeing her a Crow but she had survived so long, so perhaps-

But then the Crows had taken Rutina and Juna, both born after the treaty had taken their brothers and sisters, and they’d left Antiva for Nevarra. And then Axamache had been killed, and they’d gone to Orlais and Haida had been born in Halamshiral and not a month later they’d received an obviously insincere letter of condolence from Claudio about Rinna’s murder at the hands of her cell mates - _‘very unfortunate, but one can hardly expect mental acuity from a brute and a courtesan’_.

They’d known better to believe that Claudio had had nothing to do with it. Even half a world away Estefan still kept his own informants in the Crows - necessary, in the royal family - though he’d been down to one by that point, Claudio having found and disposed of the rest of them. The informant had given them a somewhat better picture of the situation, and later reported that Rinna’s cell mates had died in Ferelden against the Wardens, or the darkspawn.

Zashira and Estefan had drunk to their deaths, the night that information had reached them. It had been the only justice they were going to get, for any of their children.

And now one of them was alive.

She would go armed to court tomorrow, Zashira decided. If she had to lose another child, she would make the Crow go through her, first.


	4. Chapter 4

“How much did this cost?”

“Theron-”

“It’s a cape! It’s dyed in amaranth! It’s got gold embroidery of amaranth flowers - see, _look._ I _know_ embroidery, that’s fine detail work, how much did this _cost?_ ”

“Theron _put your cape on_.”

Alistair pounded the side of his fist on the open door to get their attention.

“We’re going to be late.”

“We are _not_ going to be late,” Zevran said. “We will arrive exactly when we mean to.”

“I’m not counting on that, the rate Theron’s moving.”

Zevran shot an exasperated look at Theron and told him to: “Put it _on,_ ” again.

“But with this armor, and the cape, they’re both pretty nice, and they had to have cost a lot-”

Zevran took the cape from him, turned him around, and started fastening it on.

“Well this is fine silverite armor, commissioned for you, and it is meant to also function as dress armor so the leather is quite good, and this fabric is fine wool and silk, and blue this vibrant is nothing to be scoffed at, I am not surprised that the Wardens of Ferelden before you did not wear their uniforms in the field. And the detailing-”

He turned Theron back around and adjusted the lay of the cape.

“-molding does not come cheap or easy and this is silver inlay I believe, or white gold. And then of course it is enchanted also. With this and the cape I believe that you cannot be wearing less than forty gold.”

_“Forty gold!”_

“Theron, we’re all really happy that you’ve finally learned the value of money,” Alistair said. “But we have to _go._ ”

 _“Forty gold,”_ he repeated.

“Get your sword, we have to be at the palace.”

“If we sold all the clothes we’re wearing-”

“We’d have a heaping big pile of coins and nothing to wear to _go to the palace,_ ” Alistair said, as Zevran handed Theron his sword to belt on. “Zev, you’re not going armed?”

He was surprised to see that Zevran didn’t seemed to be going armored, either. He was the only one of them with cloth clothes for court, rather than armor - a plush velvet doublet with the close sleeves slashed up the inside wasn’t going to do much against an attack, not even with the brocade jerkin over it. The tail of the doublet wouldn’t protect the backs of his knees, and the delicate lace trimming on the gathered sleeves of his undershirt might catch or tear. His boots were good, solid make - the same ones Theron had picked up for him in Haven, painstakingly repaired and cleaned up through these years of wear so that they always looked new. He’d had gold tooling added along the tops at some point.

“Who said I was not going armed?” Zevran asked.

“Okay, you know what, new question - how many weapons do you have on you, right now?”

He smiled broadly.

“That would be telling, my dear Alistair.”

“Of course it would. Silly of me to ask, really.”

“How much,” Theron asked, looking over Zevran’s outfit. Where it wasn’t gold, it was deepest amaranth wine red, or cream white and warm grey, not an exact match to their Warden colors but a clear homage to them. “Did that cost?”

“Parts of it were a rush job,” Zevran said, shooing him out of the room. Alistair moved out of the way and shut the door behind them. “So - much. You might cry. But it is very striking, no? I will be the envy of everyone.”

“You look very nice.”

“Yes I do, thank you.”

 _“Leaving,”_ Alistair said, when Theron stopped for a kiss. “We are trying to _leave._ ”

“You don’t want to go to court either,” Theron said.

“I also don’t want Anora to go frowny at me,” Alistair retorted. “Or _you._ ”

 _That_ made him hurry up and get to the horses.

Alistair was still not convinced that they _needed_ horses. They’d always walked to the palace before, but Zevran had insisted. And Tanis and Damien had agreed. And Shianni had said it was what people did. He trusted Shianni on this, elves in big cities grew up as servants to the nobility. She’d have seen plenty come and go.

Still, it felt silly to get on one just to go to the palace. And wearing armor meant the lack of shield was distracting him. He kept having this nagging sense of wrong, because horses meant travel and travel meant fighting.

At least he wasn’t riding sidesaddle. Leandra tried and then gave it up with a wince and a rueful remark about the long-past days of her youth. Bethany managed it after a couple attempts and the Amells’ maid helped her arrange her skirts, blue-green and white, over her slippers.

They set off. Theron stopped after less than a minute and turned in his saddle - Alistair ignored him _and_ his questions about why Damien and the Amells’ maid were following them on foot with Fen, why didn’t they have horses, because he kept this up they were going to be _late._

Everyone else caught up before he reached the palace, thankfully, and they all dismounted their horses. Damien stepped up to hold Theron’s stirrup for him even though he really didn’t need that, but Bethany was having trouble so Alistair hoisted her off her horse. It was a simple matter of his hands on her waist and her hands on his shoulders, a little joint effort, and her delighted laughter.

“Thank you, Lord Warden,” she said, smiling, and curtseyed elegantly.

“Why, you’re welcome, Lady Amell,” he replied, and bowed. “May I escort you inside?”

This was just the thing before having to be all serious and stuffy and courtly - some joking around. It had been decided before they’d left Vigil’s Keep how they’d come in. Precedence demanded that Theron go before he did, and being betrothed, Zevran went in with Theron. Technically the Ladies Amell were being announced as _Alistair’s_ guests, but, well - all anyone had to do was ask to find out who’s estate they were staying in.

The palace grounds were unusually crowded, but people made way at the sight of Warden armor. Some of them were Fereldan by dress, but there were many who weren’t- Marchers and Orlesians, it looked like, but there were still more he couldn’t identify.

Were _all_ of these people here for a shot at a bannorn? Anora had opened court to anyone who wanted to make a bid for one and could find a suitable sponsor or otherwise made a good impression on the court. Having a sponsor got you in faster and gave you a better chance at one of the titles up for grabs, which was why the Amells were coming in with them, rather than waiting out here with everyone else to come in after the nobles' introductions.

Alistair was relieved to pass into the anteroom before the throne hall where court was held, and had his usual moment of vertigo, looking around. They’d fought Ser Cauthrien here, to get at the Landsmeet and Loghain.

Oh look, there was Ser Cauthrien - _Bann_ Cauthrien, now that Anora had given her land in the Bannorn.

It was quiet, in this room, despite the number of people in it. Nathaniel had told him about this, before they’d left for Denerim. The monarch and their chosen group waited in the hall for everyone else to he presented to them, and it was bad manners to socialize before being presented. In the normal way of things Anora would have had the Teyrns and Arls and their families in with her, as well as any particularly important royal guests - but at this court the Teyrns and Arls had been superseded by her foreign suitors.

They were on time, and amazingly not even the last group to arrive. Some nobles he didn’t know slipped in even as the court herald banged the brass-shod butt of his richly-stained oak staff on the stone flags before the door to the hall.

Fergus stepped up from the crowd. Three counts and the herald banged his staff again. The room fell silent. Three counts more and a third bang of the staff - one, two, three - on the stone, and two servants opened the doors exactly in step.

“His Grace Fergus Cousland, Teyrn and Bann of Highever-”

“We’re really doing this,” Alistair muttered, and Zevran slung an arm each around his and Theron’s shoulders, drawing their heads close together for a conference.

“You are both going to do perfectly fine,” he told them.

“We’re going to fuck it up and die.”

“ _Optimism,_ Alistair.”

“I can’t help it, I’m an intrinsically pessimistic person.”

“Untrue.”

The herald finished announcing Fergus and moved onto Arl Eamon and Isolde, who was moving slowly, heavy with her pregnancy. Alistair glanced up over Theron and Zevran’s heads - Arl Eamon was watching him, and turned away as he watched to face the opening doors.

“-Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe-”

“I’ve never done this before-”

“And you were never a fugitive on the run before, or went into the Deep Roads before, or fought an Archdemon before,” Zevran reminded him. “You will do well and there will be no problem.”

The herald announced Arl Bryland and his daughter. Theron and Zevran were next.

“You’re underestimating our ability to make any given situation way more complicated than it should be,” Alistair told Zevran, who shook his head at him and turned toward the herald.

Theron leaned in quickly and kissed his cheek.

“Luck,” he whispered in El’vhen.

“You too,” Alistair whispered back in the same, and Theron and Zevran went to the herald.

“His Arlship Theron Mahariel Sabrae of Clan Sabrae of the Dalish, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine,” the herald announced. “Lord of Vigil’s Keep and of Soldiers’ Peak. Bann of the City of Amaranthine, and of Arland’s Peace, and of the Blackmarsh, and of Hafterfields, and of the Knotwood Hills, and of the Wending Wood.”

“Maker’s Breath,” Alistair said under his own, recalling a dim memory of when they’d last been in Denerim, and himself joking with Theron about him writing up the longest list of his possible legitimate titles to give to Anora’s protocol officer. He’d been trying to encourage Theron to get his mind off Zevran’s absence, not to actually _do_ it.

“Hero of Ferelden,” the herald continued. “And Veteran of the Fifth Blight, Slayer of the Archdemon Urthemiel. Champion of Redcliffe. Chooser of Kings, Savior of Houses Harrowmont and Dace of the dwarves of Orzammar and Kal’Hirol. One who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior. _Arla’lanelan_ -”

Wow, that had even been said almost properly.

“-Homegiver of the Third City of the El’vhen, Hallarenis’haminathe-”

No such luck with that one.

“-a Hahren of the Dalish and Dedicant of Falon’din who guides the dead.”

Nobody was topping _that_ introduction today.

“Accompanying him-”

He was starting to feel sorry for the herald, he really was.

“His betrothed, Messere Zevran Revasina of Antiva, Veteran of the Fifth Blight. One who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior.”

Huh. Surely Zevran had a couple more titles he could pull out, somewhere? Like - no, they’d all be Crow things, wouldn’t they?

“And the Mabari, Fen’harel.”

Bethany placed a hand on his arm.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she told him. The herald was announcing Arl Mallory and her wife and children. Once Arl Alfstanna had gone, it would be their turn - well, his. Recognized royal bastards had more standing than Banns, but without other titles of his own, Alistair didn’t go with the Teyrns or Arls.

Mallory, Alfstanna - the staff banged again.

He stepped up, Bethany on his arm and Leandra on his other side.

“Lord Alistair Mac Maric, Captain of the Grey in Ferelden. Son of the late King Maric the Liberator. Commander of Soldiers’ Peak and Veteran of the Fifth Blight. One who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior,” the herald announced.

He could see the throne hall, now. Anora sat on her dais, at the end of the long rug that ran the length of the hall. There were four lower thrones to either side of her - two men to her right, and a man and a woman to her left. A Chantry Sister had been afforded the right to stand one step below the dais, off to the side. Three men stood at the bottom of the stairs. Otherwise, it was almost empty, but for some servants and guards and Theron and the others.

“Accompanying him: Lady Leandra Amell of Kirkwall, and her daughter Bethany Amell.”

Step out onto the carpet - come on, do it! One step, just to start!

Here he went.

* * *

It had been a very busy year in the Chantry - first she’d solidified her network, and then dear Mother Dorothea had been named _Divine,_ and had called on _her_ to serve!

Leliana had not had a dull moment since arriving in Val Royeaux from Haven. Divine Justinia had appointed her Left Hand immediately, quickly introduced her to Seeker Pentaghast and the Imperial court, and then she and the Seeker had been off to Kirkwall.

It was a mess of a city, even so many months after the disaster. The poor and displaced were everywhere and organized the Sisters who remained there for aid as she searched through papers in the Chantry and the Circle and tracked down Templars who had fled or been reassigned.

Maddeningly _frustrating_ work, all of it! Grand Cleric Elthina had kept very few papers for a woman of her standing, and this Mother Petrice even fewer - not so much as a diary!

And the Gallows had been worse. Stripped entirely bare of resources, from Harrowing chamber to sub-basements, every book and bit of magic _gone_ but for the Knight-Commander’s petrified corpse. The red lyrium - the memory of it made her shiver. They still didn’t know what it was.

Whoever had taken the books and the rest had taken the records as well. There hadn’t been a scrap of paper to be found in the entire building, at least not with writing on it. In the basements the phylacteries had been smashed, so there was no way of properly knowing who - mages _or_ Templars - had been living there!

She would have asked the Tranquil, but their rotting corpses had been burned the same day she and Cassandra had first set foot on the island. Everyone deserved dignity in death.

All winter Leliana had tried to piece together the true story of what had been going on in Kirkwall, but with so many dead and so many fled it was onerous work, not to mention all the problems she had had recruiting agents. Here in Denerim it already looked as though things would be a bit easier, even though she'd been here less than a week.

Divine Justinia had told her that she needed to relocate somewhere else, somewhere closer to Antiva so that she could handle both the ongoing situation in Kirkwall _and_ the new one of Grand Cleric Itzar and the Tranquil in Antiva City. Denerim was perhaps not the _most_ logical choice - but it was neutral ground as these things went, not tied up in the trade  politics between the many houses and companies of the Free Marches and Antiva, and not an area she'd focused on cultivating before.

And there was a royal court! And it was her country! And her friends were here, the ones she hadn’t seen since the end of the Blight!

Dabbling in some court politics would be good for her mood. She needed something fun to do, otherwise she might go mad with Kirkwall. And someone had had to deliver the official edict of expulsion from the Chantry Brothers to Sebastian Vael for his attack on the Templars of the Circle in Jainen, after all. He had been angry but resigned, and treated her courteously and answered her questions about Kirkwall. Amazing, that Denerim would give her a clearer picture than being in the city itself.

Cousland and Guerrin and Bryland were names she was familiar with, both from the Blight and simply knowing politics; but then Theron was announced and goodness, he’d been busy these last years, to end up with so many titles!

And then Zevran was announced with him and they were _betrothed?_ Well - they had grown closer during the Blight, certainly, and it had been no secret that they had become involved near the end, after Zevran and Morrigan had rescued him and Alistair from Fort Drakon, but - Theron was a sweetheart, he could do better than a shameless rake like Zevran who would happily flaunt his philanderous and libertine lifestyle.

Zevran was living well, she saw as Theron and Zevran came down the hall carpet to the dais. Amaranthine’s money was enough to finance many things, and he was clearly taking advantage of the luxury.

Leliana watched them approach, waiting for the moment when they recognized her. It was easy with Theron, because a smile broke across his face and he tried to give her a little wave - but Zevran reached over without looking away from the Queen and stopped him.

They bowed to the Queen, Zevran acquitting himself rather better than Theron did, but that was not surprising. What was was the quarter-turn Zevran made towards the visiting prince from Antiva and his mistress, and the rather longer, more florid bow he gave them.

Hm. He had spoken of his home country often enough, but he had never seemed a patriot.

Theron and Zevran moved off to the side. It was a couple more announcements before Alistair stepped through the doors into the throne hall, and _oh my_ had he gone up in the world as well! A lord now!

And all grown up, out of his boyish looks and into that rugged Fereldan handsome! He was very kingly, in his Warden armor and his close-kept beard and grown-out hair and a beautiful woman on his arm. Now if only the Warden blue was the ancient Theirin red and orange tartan, he’d be-

The women entering the hall with him were the Amells of Kirkwall. _That_ was name that had come up often in her search for answers. How provident that they were here. And with her friends, even. They’d been long gone by the time she and Cassandra had arrived in Kirkwall and started asking questions.

Truly was the Maker present in Ferelden. Praise and glory be.

After Alistair’s entrance and presentation to the Queen, it was a simple wait through the rest of the very depleted Fereldan nobility, and then the entrance of the hopefuls outside.

The Queen stood after the last had given their bows and moved from the hall carpet. 

“My lords and ladies of Ferelden,” she said, voice clear and carrying through the hall, ringing in the rafters. Someone had been trained by a choir Sister in oration when she’d been younger. “Welcome again to our court. Andraste’s grace and favor among you.”

There was an answering murmur of the same wished for the Queen.

“As we approach the Landsmeet vote on the matter of our Bannorns, we find ourselves with some new arrivals. And so, as you were presented to us, I present to you: Ser Reynaud Yann Fay-Dufort, a Chevalier of Orlais, and cousin to our own Arlessa Isolde of Redcliffe. Lord Rosaire Desrocher, son of Marquis Jacquard of Emprise du Lion. Lord Maxwell Trevelyan, son of Bann Cleves Trevelyan of Ostwick. Prince Sebastian Vael, son of the late Prince Branimir Vael, Sovereign Lord of Starkhaven. Prince Baldewin Augustin, son of King Wilhelm Augustin of the Anderfels. Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, son of King Fulgendo Antino Bernetto Satina Diegez Bahadur Campana of Antiva; and his mistress Domsignora Zashira Elius of Antiva City.”

She was next, and Leliana focused eagerly on the people below her, waiting for their reactions.

“And Sister Leliana, Veteran of the Fifth Blight and one who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior; now Custodial Sister of the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Haven-”

Oh this was her favorite part!

“-and Left Hand of the Divine.”

And didn’t _that_ just cause a stir! She watched with hidden delight as the room reacted with sudden looks of people who were desperately trying to pretend they’d never done anything that had contradicted Andraste’s teachings or the edicts of the Chantry.

Well, everyone but her friends, which was nice. Alistair looked vaguely guilty - but that was just him. So he’d kept his hapless charm after all these years, good for him.

Queen Anora began making a short speech about welcoming them as royal guests and hoping the best for everyone’s prospects, which she felt comfortable tuning out to read the room. It was easy, with so few people, and with Fereldans’ bald-faced openness, even in court manners. It would be easier once people were circulating, but for now she picked out the leaders of the major political factions, at least as much as the Fereldan court had managed to _organize_ factions. It was nothing so sophisticated as at the Imperial court in Orlais.

There was Arl Eamon, of course, leading those who were interested in greater foreign connections as well as the liberals with his staunch devotion to bloodlines and inheritance and punctilious Andrasteanism - though even for the Fereldan liberals he took the bloodlines a bit far. His arch-rival was Arl Mallory, Old Alamarri Ferelden through-and-through, with a bloodline back into the legends of ancient history and the combative mindset towards authority and peers to match her storied ancestors’. With the end of the Theirin dynasty, leadership of the old conservative families had fallen to her.

Teyrn Fergus should have been in her camp, and had for a year or two, except for the fact that he was a proud and powerful supporter of Queen Anora and generally open to foreigners and new ways of doing things. His counterpart in the moderates was Arl Bryland, who was mostly of the same mindset but a bit less proactive, a focal point for the nobles who mostly just wanted to get on with things and maybe have a bit of excitement every once in a while. But there was no large split there, and both men seemed to get along.

Leliana eyed the newly-raised Arl Alfstanna as Queen Anora started to end her speech. There was potential for another faction there, though it seemed, at the moment, that Arl Alfstanna would join Teyrn Fergus’s faction. Really, the _interesting_ one was Theron. She hadn’t heard a thing about his political views, which was quite extraordinary. What sort of company was he keeping? Who were his allies at court? He had always been so personable and met such interesting people- what was he up to, these days, to make things better for people?

Queen Anora entreated them to enjoy the first day of court, ending the formal talking for now, and swept down into the crowd. Leliana waited a moment for the royalty to clear the dais before pattering down the stairs.

 _“Leliana!”_ Theron exclaimed excitedly as she came to join their group. _“Hi!”_

She laughed as Theron caught her up in a hug that lifted her off her feet. Being hugged by someone in armor was not comfortable, but she could put up with it.

“I didn’t know you were coming! We went to see you in Haven but you weren’t there! How are you!”

“Very well, thank you,” she said. “And you! You are getting married!”

“I know! In winter in Hallarenis’haminathe and then in spring the Chantry way, it’s going to be _wonderful._ ”

“I am very happy for you,” she said, because she was - he was so excited and joyful about it, no matter that he could have done better. “I will have to keep myself free of other obligations.”

“We would be happy to have you, Leliana,” Zevran told her. “So, tell me - _‘Left Hand of the Divine’_?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Theron said. “It sounds important but I don’t know what it means.”

“It means that she is Divine Justinia’s spymaster and personal assassin, Theron,” Zevran said, before Leliana had settled on a suitably diplomatic answer.

She frowned at him.

“That is very _bold_ phrasing,” she told him warningly.

He smiled, and placed a hand on her arm, and said in Orlesian without breaking his expression: “Bards are simply amateur Crows, my dear, and we both know it. Even if she has not yet ordered you to kill, she will someday, and you are fooling yourself if you think she will not.”

“Dorothea-”

No, that was the wrong name, she remembered, as she picked Zevran’s hand off her arm and tossed it away.

“Divine Justinia would never order such a thing!”

“She is Divine, Leliana. She must play the Game as ruthlessly as the Empress, if not more.”

“No, I do it _for_ her!” Leliana snapped at him.

“I thought you joined the Chantry to get out of that,” Alistair said, and he’d- he’d learned Orlesian? When?

“I have been called to return to it,” she told him stiffly. This was not the conversation she’d been hoping for, when she’d come over here.

“You had another vision?” Theron asked.

“The Divine speaks for the Maker. She asked; and so I came.”

“Leliana,” Zevran said, voice pitched low. He forwent Orlesian this time. Perhaps it didn’t satisfy his standards of conversational privacy. “You called her Dorothea - this is the same Dorothea who took you into the Chantry, yes? You do not owe her. You do not have to do this.”

“Oh, so you disapprove of subterfuge and killing, now?” she asked archly. “You are making a hypocrite of yourself, Zevran Arainai.”

“Revasina, please, my dear,” he said. “I have left the Crows. It is not hypocrisy if one changes one’s perspective, hm? Please, be honest with yourself, and know where you must draw your lines.”

“I am serving the Maker.”

“And He is a poor god if He demands what you do not wish to give.”

“ _Vanur’esem’dru_ , Satheraan,” Theron told him, quickly, before Leliana had properly formulated a response; and then looked to her again. “I am glad for you then, Leliana. I hope you serve well.”

Theron had always understood about faith and duty, and believed her vision when everyone else had doubted or made fun. Belief had gotten her through the Blight, she told people- but it hadn’t only been hers.

“I am doing my best.”

* * *

He had not had high expectations of the so-called _‘Arl-Commander’_ of Ferelden, and the elf had not disappointed.

He flaunted his heathenry with those barbaric lines on his face. He flaunted his titles and accomplishments with that overbearing introduction. He flaunted his wealth with the pretty Antivan on his arm.

He had the sheer temerity to come to court not only  _farcically late_ in the season, but armed in the presence of his Queen and  _armored._ The other Warden too, the bastard son.

Blight Wardens, pfeagh. The heroes of Blights past had had the good sense to die in the deed rather than open themselves to the temptation of pride and aggrandize themselves after the Archdemon had been slain.

The Wardens of Ferelden were clearly no better than the Wardens of the Anderfels. It would be just a matter of time before the Warden-Commander of Ferelden tried to take over from Queen Anora the way the First Warden was trying to take over from his father - and if not the Warden-Commander than his bastard-blood Captain.

Queen Anora had no idea the danger she’d put herself in, giving the Wardens this. Wardens belonged in the field fighting darkspawn or quietly behind their fortress walls, not given political power and allowed the run of the country!

Prince Baldewin Augustin decided right then, before the opening speech was done, that if he could accomplish one thing while he was here, it would be saving Ferelden from this menace that had been allowed to grow and fester in its rich coastlands.

But first he needed information.

Oh for - they knew the _Left Hand of the Divine?_ This called for drastic measures.

“Teyrn Fergus.”

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing. “Welcome to Ferelden.”

“I am looking forward to a season of entertainment and hospitality. I was wondering - how well do you know the Wardens?”

“In general?” Teyrn Fergus asked. “Or the Arl-Commander and Lord-Captain in particular?”

Maker’s Tears did those titles grate on his nerves!

“In the particular, Your Grace.”

“I would venture to say better than most in this room, Your Highness,” the Teyrn told him. “They’re not often in Denerim, and this is the first time they’ll be here for a whole season. But I’ve made his acquaintance. He’s quiet, mostly. Good company, but sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s joking. Amaranthine is doing well under him, and his people are loyal to him. I recently heard about a number of problems he’s taken care of that I’d never even known existed, and his lands are right next to mine. He seems quite good at his job. Private, but I daresay that if you were to ask the rest of the court, even they would have noticed that he is smitten with his fiancé. In all honesty I’m a bit surprised they haven’t married before this.”

Baldewin glanced over his shoulder. Even speaking with the Left Hand, they stayed arm-in-arm. Hm.

“And the other?”

“He declined the kingship,” the Teyrn shrugged. “Publicly, in front of the Landsmeet and the Queen. He didn’t seem very happy to have her grant him recognized bastardy status either. They’re not much for court, as I said.”

So they flaunted authority as well. Typical. Stomping all over whatever they liked because they had an military force. The nobles of the Anderfels were a contentious rabble of petty princelings - at least the Fereldan ones seemed so far to be better behaved.

But that could change at any moment.

“If you’re so interested, Your Highness, I could introduce you.”

“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Baldewin told him.

He would go to the Wardens on his own time, when he was ready to counter the damage they would do.

* * *

“Does he think he is being subtle?” Reynaud asked his cousin over their wine. They were watching the court as it began to move.

In Val Royeaux or in Halamshiral it would be a delicate, intricate dance; every placement of a step indicating something about the relations between everyone in the room. The turn of a fan or the placement of a handkerchief could be whole sentences. In combination with the fashion and colors of the clothing chosen, the hairstyles, the jewelry, the masks, one’s choice of words - an entire story.

These Fereldans just bashed their way through everything. The only person in the room with a fan was the glamorous elf mistress of the prince of Antiva, and the only people who were even _trying_ to make a statement with their outfits were her and the prince, the other Antivan with the Wardens, the two Wardens, the Queen - and of course himself and Isolde and her husband, because they were _reasonable_ people. Everyone else was wearing large bits of that _awful_ Fereldan plaid. His cousin and her husband couldn’t get away with not wearing a bit of the Guerrin colors, this apparently being _ceremonial court dress,_ of all things, but at least they were exercising _taste_ and had kept it minimal, with only a cloth rosette badge for Eamon and a bodice panel for his wife. 

Isolde sniffed at the sight of Prince Baldewin striding right to the Teyrn of Highever. So _obvious._

“He is an Ander,” she said. “You can hardly expect better. Rough and uncouth and allowing _merchants_ and _tradesmen_ into their nobility. Why, Arl Mallory’s wife-”

Reynaud listened to his cousin with one ear as she launched into a tirade about Ludhilde von Kassel-an-Lattenfluss-Auer’s awful plebeian background. Oh look, there she was, in a truly unfortunate underskirt and sash of her wife’s family’s plaid. Arl Mallory was no better, in the full wrapped sash-skirt monstrosity and matching hat. Surely at any moment the theater troupe fools would come prancing and capering in to pull their usual tricks on the rough and rustic Fereldan bumpkins.

He didn’t much care to be here. He was missing Val Royeaux in the spring with his cohort in the Chevaliers - good fun, good food, and excellent connections to the upper nobility. Why, just last year Germain had managed an evening invitation to one of the mid-season Imperial fêtes! The right service to the right nobility could move you far and they had had _plans_ for this season!

But no, here he was in _Denerim,_ because his dear cousin’s husband had somehow cajoled his parents to letting them risk that opportunity on a wildly-improbable marriage to the Queen of Ferelden. _Everyone_ knew that the Fereldans still hated Orlais. They would never accept an Orlesian husband for their Queen, not even as beloved as she was by her people.

He would simply have to make the best of it, somehow.

Reynaud idly wondered who of the royal guests would actually win her hand in marriage. Sebastian Vael was handsome enough, and Marchers were simply the city cousins of Fereldans with some manners tacked on. Starkhaven though - that was better than Ostwick. Ostwick was a coast city, prosperous on the trade from Antiva but glutted with families of barely any standing. The Trevelyans were quite acceptable, as Marcher nobility went, but the Vaels were royalty - at least of a sort - and close to Tevinter. They were practically _cultured._

Besides, Maxwell Trevelyan was more than a decade younger than the Queen. Certainly there were women whose tastes ran so young - many a Chevalier profited from those sorts in Orlais - but he could scarcely believe that a wartime Queen such as Anora Mac Tir could truly want an unblooded youth.

Prince Baldewin was leaving the Teyrn. Maybe the Queen would pick him? He was closer to her in age, and they could be uncouth together. Perhaps he would put his famed martial prowess to the barbarians in the Frostbacks or the south, human or elf, in place of the darkspawn.

Or maybe - there was Marquis Jacquard’s bastard son. A scandal, that had been, even if only a minor one. The man had had three wives of good families before marrying his commoner mistress in his advancing age, and one of his proper-born children would inherit Emprise. The prevailing sentiment in the right circles was still that the Marquis should have sent his bastard son to the Chantry as was the _proper_ and _respectable_ place for them, but-

Hm. There he was, though, in the company of a Chantry Brother and the Left Hand. Getting to know the Wardens too, he saw.

* * *

Queen Anora’s court was simply marvelous. Emprise du Lion was Rosaire’s home, yes, but here was different only in the architecture and fashion. Ferelden in the spring had the same invigorating, lingering chill in the air as home, and if the stone construction was sturdier and blockier, oh well, it made the buildings warmer than in Emprise. They really knew what they were doing, these Fereldans, with their wall tapestries and carpets. The Fereldan nobles looked enviously warm, in their wool tartans and tall leather boots and furs. His own parents had insisted on the best of Val Royeaux style, or at least on the best that they could afford and would be appropriate to his station, and it just wasn’t good enough for this weather. He'd been putting up with it all winter, and had kept wishing for nothing more than enough money to commission the clothes made over  _warmer._

But that didn’t matter so much, because Brother Genitivi was here and now  _so was the Hero of Ferelden_ _!_

He and the Brother had been talking since he’d arrived in the city, and it seemed that the Royal Historian never ran out of stories of the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, and the people he’d met. Rosaire was looking forward to keeping up a correspondence with him when he inevitably had to go back home to the Emprise.

And today, _today-_

Brother Genitivi had offered to introduce him to the Hero of Ferelden! And the Left Hand of the Divine was here too!

Rosaire hadn’t missed the herald’s introductions - there were four people who had found the Temple of Sacred Ashes and _all four of them were in this room!_

And Brother Genitivi had been there and met all of them and was introducing him!

“The Hero is something of a Chantry Brother for the Dalish,” Brother Genitivi reassured him quietly as they approached. “We’ve had some fabulously interesting conversations and correspondence about the differences between official Chantry history and the Dalish oral tradition. He loves talking about it.”

That was exactly what he wanted to know! There were so many old Dalish ruins in Emprise and down in the Dales, and he’d found bits of information and old artifacts, and just had _no idea_ how to put them together. He knew he was missing things, _big_ things, and he’d brought his notes and the more portable items he’d found in anticipation of being able to ask the Hero about them. But he’d thought he’d have to wait for weeks for it to happen, and sit through court functions and all sorts of ceremony before he’d have a real chance to talk to the man!

Lord Mac Maric was telling the Left Hand about the new Wardens who had joined since the end of the Blight when the Hero saw them coming, and smiled at Brother Genitivi.

“It’s nice to see you in person again, Brother,” he said, and Lord Mac Maric cut off his descriptions to say hello as well. Brother Genitivi and the Left Hand bowed to each other in the manner of the Chantry, and Messere Revasina shook his hand afterwards.

“And how have you been since our last letter, Arl-Commander?” Brother Genitivi asked the Hero. “It was, what, last August?”

The Hero looked a bit bashful.

“Things got very busy, and then I was away. Sorry. I’m doing well.”

“May I offer you my congratulations on your engagement?”

“Absolutely, thank you.”

“I thought you’d like to meet Rosaire Desrochers,” Brother Genitivi introduced him, and this was his cue! “He’s an amateur historian, and very interested in learning more about your people.”

Rosaire stepped forward, stomach turning nervously, and hoped he was going to do this properly. He’d read everything he could find on the Dalish, in his research trying to learn more about the ruins, and you just couldn’t be sure how much of it was accurate or not. But he knew what _vallas’lin_ were, and he’d heard the herald say _‘Falon’din’_ , so-

“ _Falon’din i’na_ , Your Arlship,” he said, as he bowed.

“It’s _‘Falon’din re i’na’_ ,” the Hero corrected him immediately. “You can only use _‘i’na’_ on its own when you’re citing the Evanuris as a whole.”

“Oh,” he said. He hadn’t messed up _too_ badly then, that was good. He’d have to remember that so he could write it down later. “Apologies, Your Arlship.”

He straightened from his bow and saw that the Hero was staring at him. So were the others.

 _“Huh,”_ Lord Mac Maric said, after a second.

“ _Ehn unghi’l El’vhen o’ma_?” the Hero asked him, and- _‘El’vhen’_ was elf, or Dalish, but-

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know Dalish-”

“El’vhen,” he was corrected again.

“-El’vhen, I only know a couple of phrases from the inscriptions I’ve found and what’s been written about-”

El’vhen? Dalish?

“-your people,” Rosaire decided on, because that’s what Brother Genitivi had used.

“You used a greeting for religious ceremonies,” the Hero told him. “Do you know what it means?”

“Brother Utrent of Montsimmard said that _‘Evanuris i’na’_ was a wishing for your gods to watch over you,” Rosaire answered. “The herald said you were a dedicant of Falon’din, so I thought it would be appropriate to specify.”

“It would be, but this is the wrong situation. It should have been _‘En’an’sal’en’_.”

“Then _en’an’sal’en_ , Your Arlship.”

“ _Su tas ma_ , Lord Desrochers.”

All right. Good! He’d made it through the introduction.

Hopefully the question he’d been consumed by since the herald had announced him wasn’t also a social blunder.

“I was wondering, Your Arlship,” he said, trying not to sound _too_ hesitant. “Why you’d named your dog after the Dread Wolf? Is it a joke?”

The Hero did not have a very readable face, but his companions were much more open. Lord Mac Maric looked long-suffering; Messere Revasina just amused. The Left Hand was smiling, a little.

“Yes,” the Hero said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and looking directly into his eyes. This was a little unnerving. “It _was_ a joke. I’m glad someone finally asked.”

“Hey, once we’d learned enough about your gods to know it could be a joke,” Lord Mac Maric said. “We knew _you_ well enough to know that it _had_ to be a joke. It’s _exactly_ your sense of humor.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?

“ _Ma melinas mar esha’len ‘Hathen’,_ Theron _._ ”

“It’s a _good pun,_ ” the Hero insisted. This sounded like an old argument.

“No it’s _not._ ”

“I brought most of my research with me to Ferelden, Your Arlship,” Rosaire said. “On the ruins in Emprise, chiefly Suledin Keep, and a few things I’ve visited in the Dales. I was wondering if I could have a time to talk to you about them?”

“Would you be available next week for a dinner or afternoon refreshments?” Messere Revasina asked him. “I would specify a date, but we do not yet know what other events there may be.”

“I haven’t been engaged for any events so far,” he said. “I’d be honored to accept.”

“Then we shall see you next week,” Messere Revasina said. “A pleasure, Lord Desrochers.”

And there was the cue to go. There was more socializing to do, after all.

He’d won a history discussion date with the Hero!

* * *

Some unspoken signal had passed between her mother and Messere Revasina when the _Left Hand of the Divine_ was so enthusiastically greeted by the Arl. Bethany thought it must have been something like _‘go, we’ll distract her’_ , because her mother pulled them off to the other side of the room immediately, somewhere where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Mother-”

“With any luck she’s never heard of us,” her mother said, to strained around the edges to be reassurance.

“But there were those serials Marian found-”

“And would the Left Hand of the Divine read Varric Tethras’s novels? Go. Socialize. Pretend that nothing is wrong and we have nothing to hide.”

Bethany still worried. If the Chantry found her-

She wouldn’t go back. She _couldn’t,_ she couldn’t stand it. It was what she’d thought she’d wanted, she’d thought she’d enjoy a Circle, but all she’d really wanted was to be left alone about her magic.

Breathe, and go speak to people. The surroundings were comforting, the Alamarri tartans familiar - the Bryland dark red with thin dark green and yellow edging, the broad Guerrin red and grey and white, the Swate blue with green and red, the Diarmagdhu green with cream and blue. She’d seen all of them throughout her childhood, on the fainsmen of the lords passing through towns or fields. Once they’d settled in Lothering she’d seen tartan often. Everyone in the south went through Lothering, eventually.

The only place she’d never thought to see it was here at court. She’d had girlhood dreams of the family fortunes rising, of her mother’s family reaccepting them, and of traveling to court and living as a lady. 

And here she was, finally.

“Lady Amell?”

_Oh._

Teyrn Cousland was asking.

“Your Grace,” she said, sinking into the curtsey her mother had had her practicing since they’d arrived in Denerim.

She felt out-of-place, even as she straightened to the Teyrn’s shallow return bow over her hand. He was in his family’s green and blue and white tartan, worn in the northern variation of tartan spats to match the kilt and the over-shoulder plaid short in comparison to the far more traditional long and draping southern version, tucked into his wide belt on his right side and pulled behind his back to fall over his other shoulder, fastened in place to his doublet with an enameled badge of the Cousland laurels.

The nobles all had their tartans to identify them, even the Queen in the pattern of the extinct old Teyrns of Gwaren. Few had opted to wear the full ensemble, northern or southern- Arl Mallory being the notable exception- but everyone had something, whether it be as prominent as Arl Bryland’s southern over-shoulder plaid, lacking the kilt; or Arl Eamon’s simple rosette pinned with the badge of Redcliffe’s tower.

And what did she have to show her family? The Amell device. In Kirkwall she had been a Fereldan; and now back in Fereldan she was painfully aware of how Marcher she seemed.

“I noticed you here in the back,” Teyrn Cousland said. “I felt I had to make certain you were feeling welcome.”

“It is my first time at court,” Bethany allowed. “But it’s more familiar than anything. I was admiring the tartans.”

“Familiar, my Lady?”

“I grew up in Ferelden,” she told him, repeating the words she and her mother had agreed on, to keep suspicion and attention low. “My father was a Fereldan Freeman. He and my mother eloped, and my family lived here until the Blight.”

“Could I venture to say that you then fled to Kirkwall, as many did?”

“You would be correct, Your Grace.”

“Then welcome home, Lady Amell,” Teyrn Cousland told her. “Is your father in attendance this season?”

“My father died three years before the Blight,” Bethany told him. “Of a sickness.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I see you were taught in Marcher manners,” he said. “We don’t need to be _quite_ this formal. You could call me Teyrn Fergus, if you’d like.”

“Then you could call me Lady Bethany, Teyrn Fergus. Lady Amell is my mother.”

“I would hate to confuse the two of you, Lady Bethany. I am sure your mother is a fine woman, but surely your charm is greater.”

She was being flirted with! This was not an aspect of courtly manner and behavior she had expected to encounter so quickly, but oh was it flattering.

“You are too kind, Teyrn Fergus,” she told him.

This would be fun.

“On the contrary, I hope to be proven miserly in my compliments,” he said, and offered her his arm. Oh goodness- well she wasn’t going to _refuse._ “Did you come into Lord Mac Maric’s acquaintance when he was in Kirkwall last Kingsway?”

“My family did, yes,” Bethany told him, as he began to walk her slowly back to the main throng of nobles. “But we are really guests of the Arl. My sister is involved with his, you see.”

“Is she really?”

“Yes, they are traveling south at the moment to Hallarenis’haminathe to meet the Arl’s mother.”

“I recall a joke he made,” Teyrn Fergus said. “Would this perhaps be the sister who is very adept with magic of the lightning and rock variety?”

He - he knew Merrill was a mage. What would he say, if she-

“That does sound like Merrill,” she said, and silently prayed that his response would not be _awful._

“True Fereldans, then,” Teyrn Fergus said, and that was a twinkle of good humor in his look. “To leave a noble family for the life of a Freeman, survive fleeing a Blight, take a Dalish mage in stride, and then survive the fall of Kirkwall. The women of your family are surely stout-hearted, tenacious, and even perhaps approaching your own beauty, Lady Bethany. Our country has been lacking with you gone.”

Flirting was not what she had expected, but it was better than it could have been.

“Oh, but surely they must have missed my sister’s mabari more?” Bethany flirted back. “She is truly the best of us.”

“I stand corrected,” he said, smiling. “Please accept my thanks on behalf of our country, then, for serving as what I am sure was an _excellent_ retinue for one of our finest well-bred daughters.”

“It has been an honor and a pleasure.”

“But not so great as that of your company,” Teyrn Fergus told her. “I believe that there will be musicians shortly, for the luncheon dancing. Could I presume your favor for the first set?”

“You certainly may, Teyrn Fergus.”

* * *

“What a pleasantly surprising man,” Zevran said, as Rosaire Desrochers walked off to find another group to socialize with. Leliana ducked out after him, with a quick comment about also being glad to see them for a luncheon or some such at a later date, to keep catching up.

“He’s _Orlesian,_ ” Theron said, once Lord Desrochers and Leliana were both out of earshot.

“And a respectful Orlesian is always surprising.”

Theron huffed and glowered at nothing in particular.

“ _Amora,_ please. This is a _good_ thing.”

“He’s _Orlesian,_ ” Theron said again.

“And you are becoming very Fereldan if this is a particular obstacle to being friendly.”

 _“I’m Dalish,”_ Theron said, the strain evident. “And _he’s Orlesian.”_

“And there is nothing wrong with being excited about history with him so long as he continues to be respectful,” Zevran told him. “Alistair, you may wish to retrieve Bethany.”

“What- wait, when’d she leave?”

“Where you really expecting her or Leandra to stay when the _Left Hand of the Divine_ was right here?”

“It’s just Leliana-”

“She’s over there with Fergus,” Theron said. “They look like they’re having fun.”

Zevran looked. They did - and they matched well, in the Cousland tartan and the blue-green Bethany had chosen for her first time at court. They were clearly waiting for the dancing to begin, and they would be something to see, out on the floor.

“No luck for you then, my friend,” he told Alistair, who sighed. Zevran knew he’d been planning on sticking with Leandra and Bethany to keep anyone else from making him talk. “Perhaps Leandra?”

“No, no,” Alistair said. “They’re putting the food out. I’ll go over there.”

“You really must socialize.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You are avoiding talking to anyone. I know this trick of yours and Theron’s.”

“I’m not list-en-ing,” Alistair sang as he walked off to inspect the sideboard.

 Very well. He could be cornered at the food, then.

“Now,” he said to Theron. “Who do you wish to speak to?”

“Arl Mallory?”

“Hm, try again. You already made an inroad with her two days ago. And do not say Teyrn Fergus.”

He watched Theron look around, searching out Arl Eamon and then discarding him when he found the Arl leading the unmarried Habren Bryland over to Alistair, who hadn’t noticed them coming yet.

Well _he_ was certainly wasting no time. Zevran made a note to himself to watch for this tactic later. Alistair needed to socialize, yes, but he did not need to be constantly hounded for it. That would not make him willing to be at court.

“Arl Bryland?” Theron suggested.

“A good choice.”

He moved to unhook his arm from Theron’s, but Theron put a hand on his.

“I like being this close.”

So did he, but-

“It will make it harder to walk.”

“We got all the way down the carpet from the door.”

True enough!

“Then lead on, my lord,” he told Theron, pitching his voice low and husky. Properly he needed a fan for this, for the seduction, but Ferelden was far too cold to justify it. Still, it did not need to be _practical_ to be useful, or fun.

Theron blinked at him, caught off-guard for a moment at being addressed so formally, and then very slowly started blushing.

Zevran chuckled at him and Theron ducked over to kiss him, brief and fierce.

 _“Mine,”_ he said quietly, before pulling back.

As always, that simple word made Zevran go warm and deeply satisfied inside. It was a good word, like this, that meant _‘love’_ and _‘belonging’_ and _‘wanted’_. It was excellent defense against against the little part of him that still tried to insist, sometimes- the part the demons tried to use - that he was nothing, that he didn’t deserve anything, that this wasn’t real. When nothing else worked, knowing that Theron was possessive meant knowing that he wasn’t going to be discarded.

He was very glad Theron had finally started saying it.

Arl Bryland greeted them warmly.

“Have you met my daughter, Arl-” he started to say, and then realized that she wasn’t with him. “Oh.”

Zevran glanced over at Alistair only to find that she wasn’t there any longer. _That_ hadn’t taken long. Where had-

“She is with Arlessa Isolde, Your Arlship.”

“Ah, of course she is,” Arl Bryland said comfortably. “Habren’s very enamored of Isolde, loves hearing her stories. And it’s good practice for her Orlesian. She’s nearly fluent now!”

“Surely you are as well, Your Arlship?”

“Yes, my dear mother taught me,” he said. “But it’s one thing to learn it from your mother’s arms and another to get it from tutors. I taught her Alamarri like my father taught me, but it just didn’t take the same way.”

He shrugged, and looked to Theron.

“How are my niece and nephew?” he asked. “I have to say that it was such a relief to get that letter from Delilah-”

Thank you, Arl Bryland, for naming names, because he had no way to surreptitiously prompt Theron into reminding him of the familial connections.

“-last Harvestmere. We’d just about given her up for dead, and all I could think of any time Nathaniel and I spoke of it was how I’d promised young Thomas just before he died that I’d keep his brother and sister safe. I’ll admit that when I got that first letter from old Garavel that Nathaniel was in the Vigil’s dungeons for an _assassination_ attempt that I was fully ready to ride up there right then and beg for your mercy.”

“I hadn’t known you’d gotten a letter,” Theron told him.

“Oh, the Garavels were knights for generations,” Arl Bryland said. “My wife grew up with him as her bodyguard. Very close, they were.”

“Nathaniel never actually tried anything,” Theron assured him. “I could tell he just needed something to hold on to. He’s very helpful, and always has an answer for things. Amaranthine wouldn’t be doing nearly as well without him. He’s been stressed, but I think he’s doing all right. Delilah’s properly Seneschal and people are treating her like it. I approved a town charter for the settlement outside Vigil’s Keep so that’s going to be her big project for this spring and summer.”

“Congratulations on that,” Arl Bryland said ruefully. “Would that I could have the money or people to found new towns.”

“Oh, I- I’m sorry to hear that, Arl Bryland-”

He was going to offer to _help,_ Zevran realized, and no! No no no! These things required forethought! Proper planning! _Caution!_

“Leonas, please,” the Arl said. “You’ve saved my sister’s children. That deserves familiarity, don’t you think?”

Thank you again, Arl Bryland, for saying something. And this was a good development! Zevran added him to the list with Lord Desrochers and Leliana of people who needed invitations to the estate.

“Theron, then,” Theron told him, and they shook on it. “So how has your daughter been?”

“She keeps after me to send her to the Imperial court in Orlais as a guest of her grandmother’s family,” Leonas said. “If she was oh, eight or nine years younger, maybe I would, but-”

His expression was rueful.

“-she’s got this idea that she’ll be more important than she is, being related to Empress Celene and all. A decade ago she just thought Orlais was glamorous. Now she’ll just blunder all over the Game and have to come home in disgrace. I won’t spend that sort of money on that, and I won’t save up for a purse for her to go when she already spends enough in the Denerim markets. We haven’t got the kind of coin to send her to Val Royeaux. Maybe in a couple year’s time, once she sees what court here is like, instead of only having stories and fanciful imaginings to go on.”

“She has not come before?” Zevran asked.

“No, I’d always kept her close before the Blight,” he admitted. “And afterwards I wanted to wait to give her the sort of introduction and resources to have the dresses and parties and things she’s always dreamed of. But she was too old this year to put it off any longer, and the Queen’s edict about marrying came down.”

“I wish her luck in her endeavors, then.”

“I really don’t know how I’d find anyone _to_ marry her. She’s not ready to be a wife yet. I’ve started to think that maybe I can convince the Queen to leave her out of the edict if I remarry. It’s been twenty years since my Alicia died. I think I’m ready again.”

“I hope you find someone you like if you look,” Theron told him, and they made their mutual goodbyes.

“No promises, no offers, just small talk and only advice in minor ways,” Zevran told him quietly as they walked off. “Your word is binding.”

“If he needs money, I-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No. Lending money to nobility is something to be done delicately and with care. It is a favor and a form of power both and it is not to be done lightly or offhandedly. We can discuss it later. Now, who next?”

Theron chose old Bann Caerthenn, and opened the conversation with asking him about how his castle was doing.

“ _Please,_ Your Arlship, don’t get him started on the Caer,” his daughter intervened before her father could say anything. “We’ll be here past lunch.”

“He asked about the Caer, Prydain,” her father said. “And I’m going to tell him about the Caer!”

She sighed heavily.

“All _right, Athair_.”

Ah, an opportunity.

“If they wish to speak of Caer Thenn, my Lady, then we can leave them to it,” Zevran said to her. “Have you met Bann Tarcaisne’s daughters?”

“I have not, Messere Revasina.”

“Then it would be my honor to introduce you,” he said, with a little bow for politeness’s sake. “if you would so desire.”

“Yes, _please,_ ” she said, and took his arm. Zevran led her over to where Bann Tarcasine’s daughters stood together - they’d gathered their own small group of young women their age, he saw.

“Messere Revasina!” the younger, Elsa, called as she saw them approach, and waved enthusiastically. She was newly nineteen, he remembered, because her father had brought her and her sister Claerwen to Vigil’s Keep at about this time last year, to present Elsa to Theron on her eighteenth birthday. It had been a rather poor debut for a young woman of the nobility, but unfortunately Theron was her liege lord and it was to _his_ court, such as it was, that she had to be presented first, before she could come to Denerim.

That was something else that should be changed. Teyrns and Arls were to keep their own courts, and Theron… didn’t. Zevran was willing to allow good reason for it. Vigil’s Keep was _not_ conducive to a court, being far too much of a working military fortress still, but there was Amaranthine, or the soon-to-be-founded Kepton outside the Vigil’s walls.

“Why, hello to you too, Lady Elsa,” he said, and bowed extravagantly over her hand because he remembered that it had made her laugh, at Vigil’s Keep. It did so again here, though she tried to stifle it to a giggle.

“You and the Arl are getting _married!_ ” she gushed. “I’m so happy for you, I couldn’t believe you weren’t already married when _Athair_ brought us to the Vigil!”

“It is a common sentiment, Lady Elsa,” Zevran told her. “And thank you. Could I perhaps introduce you and your sister to Bann Caerthenn’s daughter?”

“Well I don’t see why not.”

 _“Elsa,”_ her sister whispered pointedly.

“Oh- um. Yes, Messere Revasina, you may.”

A charming woman, Elsa Tarcaisne.

“Then, my dear, here is Prydain Caerthenn of Caerthenn. Lady Prydain - Lady Elsa Tarcaisne and her elder sister Lady Claerwen Tarcaisne of Montforest, and  unfortunately I am not of the acquaintance of these other young beauties.”

“Muirwyn Perth, Messere,” one of them said, and halfway curtsied before she caught herself. Formerly-Ser Perth’s daughter, then, and unused to being of a higher rank in introductions.

“A pleasure, Lady Muirwyn,” Zevran said. “Your father entirely deserved the lands and title Arl Eamon granted him. It was the Bannorn of Ashwood, yes? How are you finding it?”

“It’s a lot different than Redcliffe,” she told him, blushing a little at being called _‘Lady’_. “I’m used to the village, but the hills and the forests are pretty.”

“I wish you joy in your new home,” he said, and picked one of the other women he didn’t know - the younger, perhaps _the_ youngest. She certainly wasn’t older than Elsa - to bow to. “And you, my Lady?”

“No _‘Lady’_ , Messere,” she said softly, and curtsied, more deeply than he’d bowed. “Just _‘Mistress’._ Cassia Aurum.”

Ah. The daughter of Ser Gaheris Aurum, then. One of the few knights to survive the Blight. The great-granddaughter of Bann Gaila, the other elderly Bann Theron would earnestly discuss business with. Zevran recalled what Theron had said earlier in the week about Bann Gaila and asked:

“Has your great-grandfather found success in placing your brother into squiredom, Mistress Aurum?”

“Oh!” she said, clearly surprised that he knew. “No, no Grandpapa hasn’t had any luck finding someone to take Medraut. He doesn’t want to send him out of the country, see, but Father can’t squire his own son and the other knights are busy being Banns now.”  

“Truly unfortunate,” Zevran told her. “Though perhaps he could broaden his horizons? Many of the other nobles are not knights, it is true, but they are hardly lacking in fighting experience.”

“I suppose he could,” Cassia said.

“He _should,_ ” the other woman he hadn’t been introduced to yet said. “Anyone in central Ferelden fought in the Blight. And it would be good connections.”

She looked to Zevran and extended her hand for him to take.

“Lady Ninaeve Kelaig,” she told him. “Daughter of Bann Kunaich Kelaig, of Winter’s Breath. That’s my sister Lyonesse over there, with Blanche and Soraed. Banns of White River and Ravenswatch.”

Claerwen poked her.

“Stop being pretentious.”

“Did I _lie?_ ”

_“Nin.”_

_“Claer,”_ Lady Ninaeve echoed back in the same tone. “Welcome, Lady Prydain, Messere Revasina. Messere Revasina, I was wondering – a lot of people have been wondering – where have the Arl and the Lord-Captain and you been, to keep you so late from court? Everyone thought we’d see you at Satinalia with us, and the Queen refused to say where you were whenever anyone asked.”

They’d been – _Theron! No wonder_ the Queen had begun their arrival being-!

“On business,” Zevran lied smoothly. This would be presumptuous, but _someone_ had to keep up Theron’s reputation if _he_ wasn’t going to. Of _all the things_ to do while he was gone – he’d thought the dueling in Hallarenis’haminathe was the worst of it! “If the Queen chose not to say, I shall follow her lead.”

"The more  _interesting_ question is Prince Estefan's mistress," Claerwen disagreed.

He’d known to expect this. He was Antivan; they were Antivan. Breathe in, breathe out, and-

“The _Domsignora_?” he asked. “What about her?”

“She’s so _pretty,_ ” Elsa said. “She has such big eyes!”

…

Humans.

“She is thought such in Antiva as well,” Zevran agreed; because while he didn’t know for certain, she fit the Antivan human woman ideal, if not the human ideal for elf women. And even from across the room he could tell she had a majestic air, with her sweeping velvet dress, the golden, silver-edged fan held delicately in one hand, and sparkling with diamonds and dark amethysts in the royal Campana colors. Attitude and clothing could make up for a lot.

“What do you know about her?” Lady Ninaeve asked.

“Not very much, I am afraid,” Zevran said, because that was easier than the truth. “She has been with Prince Estefan for quite some time, though.”

“Really?” Cassia asked. “But their daughter is so young.”

“I,” he started to say, and then realized what- “What?”

“That little girl _is_ their daughter, isn’t she?”

There _was_ a young girl with them, he saw now. She had a dress in the same color and style as her mother and was being held close by her mother, so that she blended in. Where had she been on the dais? Behind the guests’ chairs?

She was clearly bored by her parents’ current conversation with Anora, and was looking around the room. Her eyes slid past him and his breath caught - she was far younger than he’d ever seen Rinna, but she had her same hair, dark and thick and curling, and from the brief glimpse of her profile the same slant of her nose-

“She certainly appears to be,” Zevran said, which was a _terrible_ answer, but.

He finished with the group, somehow, getting the woman to move to another topic and then excusing himself, he hadn’t really paid attention, letting experience and training take over while he focused on not betraying anything.

Alistair had found Leandra, who had pulled him into a group conversation. Bethany was still with Fergus, and Theron was still with Bann Caerthenn. No one was looking at him and he slipped out, avoiding the undue notice of guards and personal servants and palace staff on his way to one of the private rooms off the dining hall where the Queen would serve lunch, at the end of court for today. During a Landsmeet, these little rooms were used for quick conferences and deals during breaks in the voting sessions.

He couldn’t stay gone for long. It was a small room, with so few living nobles. People would notice.

But he could stay gone for a little while.

Zevran put his back to the door and leaned his head against it, eyes closed.

_Rinna, I am so sorry. Your parents had another child, after the Treaty, and she is too young for you to have met her. I am sorry._


	5. Chapter 5

“Kallian!”

She stepped back from her latest practice bout with Fenris to look over at her cousin. She was standing ok the edge of the gravel area, with the Antivan kids behind her.

“Just a second,” she told Fenris, who nodded.

She sheathed her sword and went to see what her cousin wanted.

“Messere Revasina told the kids they had to clean up a room they messed up,” Shianni told her. “Turns out they can put things back where they came from all right, but they don’t know how to clean.”

“Huh.”

“So I was thinking, since apparently Messere Revasina told them right out that they shouldn’t subject servants to it, that _you_ could show them how to clean. Being a big-shot knight and not a servant and all.”

“I _could,_ ” Kallian said. “But I’m sort of, you know-”

She gestured back at Fenris.

“Getting your ass kicked by Serrah Handsome-with-a-tortured-past,” Shianni supplied.

 _“No,”_ Kallian told her. “ _Yes,_ but - _no._ ”

“You enjoy it.”

“No I- I mean- _yes,_ but-”

“ _You’re_ blushing.”

“Shut _up,_ Shianni!”

“Teach the kids how to scrub a floor and change sheets,” her cousin told her. “Bet you your man doesn’t know about _that._ Be a chance to teach _him_ a thing or two.”

“He’s not my man!”

“Uh-huh. Kallian, a good husband is a husband who can clean-”

“Wha- _Shianni!_ Shianni we’re _not-_ ”

“-so get him trained up now.”

“I-!”

“If you don’t ask him, your father’s going to.”

“Was _that_ what that dinner was-”

“Buckets and brushes and stuff are in the same place as always,” Shianni said, and _walked off._

She looked at the kids, helplessly. They looked back.

“Are you getting married too?” the younger one asked hesitantly.

 _“Andraste’s bloody sword,”_ she swore, and looked over her shoulder to call: “Hey Fenris!”

“Yes?”

“You know how to clean?”

He looked down at himself, and then back up.

“Am I filthy?”

“ _Very funny!_ A _room,_ Fenris!”

“No.”

“Well come on, I’m going to teach you!”

She looked at the kids.

“Don’t you _dare_ say anything about what Shianni was on about with him.”

 _Married,_ she thought as she directed the kids where to find the cleaning supplies so she and Fenris could get changed into something more suited for the job. _Dad’s trying to get me married again! Shianni too!_

 Not that she was _superstitious_ or anything, but- hadn’t they learned from the last one? And she hadn’t even wanted to get married!

Wait a second.

 _‘Hadn’t’_?

 _All right, Kallian, what more do you **want?**_ she asked herself as she changed out of her armor and into some clothes she could afford to get dirty. _You’re a knight! You’re never going to be stuck in an alienage! **Now** isn’t the time to get all lost over the idea of having a bunch of babies!_

She thought about the babies she’d seen throughout her life in the alienage. And the Commander’s son, he’d been kind of cute.

Nothing?

Nothing.

_Good._

So. Still no getting married.

Except-

She _liked_ having Fenris around. The traveling had been fun, seeing him every day and getting to know him better, and doing it again here in Denerim was good too. She’d miss him, if he was gone.

She’d miss him a lot, Kallian realized. A _lot._

She didn’t _want_ to have a day without the possibility of seeing him.

_Fuck._

If her father arranged her marriage to someone _else,_ though. Someone she’d never met, someone she didn’t care for, someone…

Who wasn’t Fenris.

_Fuuuuuck._

But she didn’t want to have kids!

She was standing in the little room she’d been given in the estate, holding her undershirt and staring blankly at the wall. Kallian threw it on, tugged a tunic over in, and dashed over to Shianni’s office.

“But I don’t _want_ to have kids!” she exclaimed, pushing the door open.

Shianni was in there with Lyanna and Isfa and Dosette, all from the alienage, and Dosette’s husband Tinan.

“Everyone knows that, Kallian,” Isfa told her. “It’s not _news._ ”

“But if _I_ get married-”

“Nobody’s kidding themselves,” Tinan said. “We all know you’re going to be staying in Amaranthine. No point trying to make you an alienage wife.”

“We’ll still miss you though,” Lyanna reassured her.

“If you’re in Amaranthine, Uncle Cyrion can moan all he likes about grandkids,” Shianni said. “You’re not _here._ Nobody can _make_ you have kids.”

That was right!

“You’re right! No one can _make me_ have kids! _I’m_ a knight! I’m the first elf knight since the Dales! I live in Amaranthine and I don’t have to listen to him if I don’t want to!”

“Exactly! Now get out there and get married!”

“I will!” Kallian exclaimed, and left.

Then she turned around and went back.

“No I won’t!” she told Shianni, who was laughing at her with the others. “I’m going to go clean that fucking room!”

“You’d _better_ not fuck in it!” Shianni hooted. “It’s Mistress Revasina’s room!”

“I hate you!”

“Get out of here!” her cousin told her. “Go on, get! I bet the kids are waiting for you!”

“Best not to keep the husband waiting either!”

“Good women look after their families!”

“Nah, don’t listen to her, you get yourself a man who knows his sword _and_ a broom!”

“I’ll kill all of you!” Kallian called back over her shoulder, to another round of uproarious laughter from the still-open door. This would be the news of the alienage tonight and tomorrow and _Maker,_ did _everyone_ know about her and Fenris? Had her father been going around _talking_ about it? “In your sleep! I know where you live!”

“So do we!”

* * *

The court concluded after lunch, which had gone midway through the afternoon. When they got back to the estate, the first thing Zevran did was check on the children, to see how they’d done with fixing his mother’s room.

Tanis was already in there, when he arrived, inspecting everything with a critical eye - and Kallian and Fenris too, in work clothes and a bit damp around the edges. The children were standing at Crow attention, stiff and masking anxiousness, but he saw them unbend a little when he walked in.

He smiled at them, and went to greet his mother, sitting with her arms crossed on her freshly-made bed.

“Hello, _Mamae_ ,” he told her, and gave her a kiss. “Have they done well?”

“They gave everything back,” she said grudgingly. “How was it?”

“Court? Much as I expected. Theron and Alistair handled themselves well enough, and there are plans to make now.”

“It appears sufficient,” Tanis pronounced of the room. “Thank Ser Tabris and Serrah Fenris for helping, Diego, Tiar.”

They did, Diego rather louder, clearer, and more sincerely than Tiar.

“Did you ask for help?” Zevran asked them.

They both froze, momentarily, but Diego did say: “Yes,” without very much fear or nervousness.

“Then you did very well,” he praised them, and gave more hugs. Diego’s enthusiasm at hugging back made him smile; and the simple fact that Tiar leaned into him when he offered her a hug was gratifying. “You did exactly as you should.”

Diego looked to Tanis.

“Lessons today?” he asked hopefully.

“I am certain that Damien and Orana are tired from the palace,” Tanis told him. “You shall have to ask them.”

“Lessons?” Zevran asked.

“Damien has taken it upon himself to teach Orana how to read and write,” Tanis told him. “And to improve the children’s. He had a very good classical education as Lady de Lydes’s personal companion and he seems determined to pass it on.”

“Maybe you could get in on it, Fenris,” he heard Kallian say.

“I am no child!”

“Orana’s not either. Hey, _I_ could stand to read and write better, and I know it. If anybody in the alienage ever learns, it’s enough to do estate books or read a Chanter’s board for odd jobs.”

  Well now. Wasn’t _that_ something. So Damien did have things he did in his spare time, after all.

Perhaps they could make it an official part of his job? It wasn’t what he’d been hired for, but Tanis wasn’t being a governess for Kieran at the moment either. She’d been happily co-opted into assisting him with keeping Theron and Alistair ready for court.

“Perhaps you could go together,” Zevran suggested to Kallian and Fenris, and left to find Theron.

They needed to have _words._

He found his fiancé in his office, poking around at the paperwork on his desk.

“I had been having thoughts,” Zevran said, as he closed the door behind him. “Such as: _‘this is a strange time to begin court’_ and _‘the new Banns will surely lose the best part of the spring’_ and _‘how odd to have delayed court until Wintersend but I suppose Prince Baldewin requires travel time’_ and _‘all of these decisions that must be made seem very rushed if the vote is a mere two weeks out’_ and  _'perhaps the Queen realized that you and Alistair do not care much for court and could make you happier to be here by negotiating for you to come later'_ but it makes sense after this morning, because in fact none of this was the case and the court season began, on _schedule,_ _two months ago, when you were supposed to arrive!_ ”

“I didn’t know!” Theron protested. “I thought that Anora was saying that she’d see me the week before Wintersend because the court _started_ then!”

“If you ever _paid attention_ to _anything_ but the Wardens, you would _know better!_ ”

“I _do_ pay attention to things that aren’t the Wardens! I pay attention to the clans! And I help when someone comes with a problem in the arling!”

“There should be local lords! _Knights,_ at least! They should not have to trek across the arling to come address their concerns to _you!_ There is _good reason_ why the Queen is annoyed with you! I had been letting it be and not saying much of the situation _despite_ its unsatisfactory nature, but I am seeing now that I should have been pushing you all these years, because the sheer – _disorder_ and _ineptness_ of it all is _disgraceful!_ Bann Tarcaisne and _three_ landed knights, Theron! You could at _least_ give Ser Shepard and Ser Tabris lands – not that it would _improve_ your administration very much!”

“It’s not _my_ fault that the old lords who were left after the Blight and civil war and Rendon Howe tried to _kill me_ and left me with – all this! It’s _running itself just fine!_ People have money and the farms are making food and violence is mostly local and when they can’t handle it themselves _I_ go and handle it, because _that’s my job!_ Why should I _need_ lords!”

“Because you are an _Arl!_ ” Zevran exclaimed. “You are – _ah! Incredibly frustrating!_ You are _nobility!_ ”

“And?”

“It is _one thing_ to go on as you have been with the Queen expressing no displeasure, but she has made it _very clear_ that she finds all of _this_ unacceptable, and she has every right to! If she does not approve then you are flaunting her authority! You are humiliating her! You arrived _two months late_ to court, _without notice!_ You didn’t even _know!_ She had ordered you to come and, effectively, you _did not._ ”

“I’m here now!”

“After the opening of court! After the first _and_ second runs of social events, parties, balls, feast days, salons, outings! You are very lucky that you are likeable, because otherwise I quite doubt any of them would have a thing to do with you, Hero or no! It is one thing not to show up at all! It is quite another to _be late._ You have told everyone – the current nobility, those who would have a bannorn, the foreign guests, visiting dignitaries, ambassadors – that they are _not worth your time._ That _Ferelden_ and the _Queen_ and the business of the country _are not worth your time!_ If the  _Queen herself_ had not been covering for you - when she had  _every right_ to make it known that you had defied her and  _ruin your good name!_ \- you have insulted everyone of importance in this city, Theron! Some have may take it gracefully and others may find their annoyance fleeting; but many more of them would _not_ _have forgotten this_. A hero’s reputation can only hold out so long and while it does and will mean much to the Fereldans who lived through the Blight it means very little to anyone _else;_ and regardless of anything it will not take very much misstep for you to _stop_ being the Warden-Commander of Ferelden to them and instead be a heathen barbarian _elf_ with a position and political power that some respectable, deserving _human_ should be holding and wielding instead! _That_ is the story they will retell to their fellows in the Marches, in Orlais, in Antiva and Nevarra and the Anderfels and the Imperium! Perhaps there could be _something_ salvageable if you held your own court as the other Arls do and take those you favor into your household but you do nothing of the sort! You _ignore_ those who promised you fealty! You do not show your authority! You leave all the responsibility of vital functions to those beneath you, without paying the slightest bit of attention to those responsibilities most of the time! _You are ruining yourself!_ ”

Things devolved from there, and they didn’t speak to each other until the next morning.

* * *

The being-a-Warden business was a piece of shit.

So he was alive, great, nice, sure. But he had to spend his nights with dreams of the darkspawn? He could hear them whispering? And it almost made sense?

He was stronger. His stamina was better. He thought maybe his senses were a bit sharper and he was a little faster, but he could have trained that into himself. He didn’t need corrupt magic curse blood to do _that._

But Theron was alive. Merrill was alive, and Ashalle, and the clan. And he was getting to see them all again.

Even if they were changed.

Theron’s changes, when Tamlen had first seen him again, when the Chasind sorceress had dragged him through the eluvian, had been a shock. _This_ elf, with his shining armor and his heraldic shield and the straight sword on his hip; _this_ elf with his broad shoulders and his frame heavy with muscle and his hair long enough to do up in the old warrior styles of the Dales? _This_ was Theron? His little brother, who couldn’t hit a tree with an arrow standing six feet from it but had entertained clanmates more than once by starting a perfect recitation of some poem or history from the middle of a sentence containing a prompted word? Theron who had happily accepted the possibility of the shem’s _‘demon’_ in the ruins in the hopes of recovering Dalish history, and then proceeded to trip _every single_ faulty old fire trap in the place and burnt his leathers half to charcoal?

Merrill’s were easy to miss. They weren’t in her body, so much, though the patterns of faint old scars on her fingers from pieces of mirror and the discolored line of a repeatedly-opened knife wound across the top of her left arm hinted at the invisible changes, the scars and the hurts that learning blood magic had left. She thought just a little different, now, sideways and not always there. Tamlen couldn’t be sure if it was demons or if it was the shock of being shunned by Sabrae or if it was damage from having to live in an alienage.

He’d gotten used to hers, on the days they’d spent together on the road. To him, Merrill was now this half-exile mage with the human nearly-wife, still recognizably his sister with her care of others and her unceasing focus when she had a problem to solve or something to learn. She was a bit odd, now, but he _could_ see the root of it; the quirks and habits that had been subdued last he’d known her now out full-force. It was just the magnification of things that had kept her the outsider she’d always been, a little, to the rest of the clan.

But his days with Theron had been less than five, all told. He couldn’t quite reconcile the armed and armored elf lord who almost could have stepped out of an ancient mural with his brother. His brother was a _happy_ person, quiet and serious and deeply content with his life, devoted to his people and their gods. He wasn’t the warrior he’d seen in Antiva and Amaranthine, not hardened but a little worn, a little sad, with danger lurking in the power of his body and ease of command in his carriage. Theron had laughed, sure. He’d smiled and they’d acted like they always had. It was still _him._ But the warrior seemed like a mask to Tamlen still, and not the part of Theron he intellectually knew it was, now.

Merrill agreed with him that Theron was different, but what _she_ said was that his soul felt raggedy, like he was constantly bleeding into the Beyond. Tamlen had tried to get her to explain - he felt like a mage, always a little in the Beyond even when they were awake? - but she’d shaken her head and said: _“ **no,** like he’s **bleeding.** ”_

It was not reassuring, and Theron was going to _explain_ what he’d done to fuck up his _soul_ like that, when Tamlen saw him again.

But right now, they were still traveling. Merrill’s human had said they weren’t far away, last night, but they’d been traveling most of the day and-

“There,” the Chasind sorceress said, pointing. “‘Tis your city, Merrill, Tamlen.”

He could do nothing but hold Merrill’s hand over the front end of the cart and stare in awe as it grew bigger and bigger. Stone walls, stone towers, great murals, outlying fields of growing things, buildings housing birds and rabbits for quick meat, thousands and thousands of halla - their Third City had earned its name. _‘Rest of the numberless halla’_ indeed.

The guards on the entrance they used recognized the Chasind sorceress. They seemed grudging about letting Merrill’s human through with the horse and cart and her big sword, but the phrase _‘gifts from Arla’lanelan’_ got them all through and to the big tower the Keepers and Hahrens had claimed, where they turned everything over and got directions to where Sabrae had staked out land for themselves.

It was another strange thing, about Theron. He had a _title._ There hadn’t been a titled one of the People since before the Dales had fallen. He was-

His brother _was_ somebody. To all the People. Not just to him and Merrill.

Tamlen could mark some the clans they passed by the banners they’d hung over their compound walls, heraldry of old Houses that hadn’t seen the light of day in centuries. They passed Vhadan’ena’s bounding halla, Lathlea’s sun-and-moon, Erdua’s mockingbird, and Vhen’haurasha’s tongue of fire until the clan symbols were ones he didn’t recognize.

“Do you think Marethari had Sabrae’s snake put out?” Merrill asked, when she saw him looking.

“Don’t know,” he said, trying to picture it. He knew House Sabrae’s symbol was a golden snake on a brown backing, but he’d never actually _seen_ it. “Maybe.”

The camps got less and less fortified, less permanent, the lower and further they went. Walls were of wood instead of stone, and the aravels hadn’t been sunk. Eventually they came to an area of the city where the walls of the compounds weren’t even entirely up yet.

“Morrigan!” someone called. “Deva! Deva Morrigan!”

“I am no Deva, Rajrad Myathis Revasina.”

“No?” the man who had come out of one of the unfinished compounds to see her stopped, leaning on his staff. “You are Chasind, though.”

“And are all mages of the Dalish Keepers?” she retorted.

“Your point,” Rajrad conceded. “Is _Arla’lanelan-_ ”

“He is not with us,” Morrigan informed him. “But we _are_ here on an errand you will find of interest.”

“Oh?”

“Theron is to marry Satheraan this coming winter. His mother must be fetched for the negotiations - Theron has found your sister, as well.”

The mage’s breath caught like a halla had kicked him.

“Nehna’s-”

“Alive and extremely ill of temper.”

She turned and continued on without saying goodbye or closing the conversation. Rajrad fell in with them, eyeing the Warden armor Theron had outfitted Tamlen with before he’d left. He’d complained that Theron had promised him _proper_ replacements for what he’d burned in Antiva, having expected good Dalish leathers and boots.

Theron had just handed him his sword back. It was _his_ dar’missan, Tamlen knew, the one he’d traded Theron for those years ago back in the Brecilian, because it was the veridium of a Second’s sword and had the old polished handle of warm light-colored wood with the nicks and chips in the right places.

 _“You still have it,”_ Tamlen had said to his brother, choking up.

 _“I carried it the whole Blight,”_ Theron had told him. _“I shouldn’t have taken it from Sabrae, but I did. Sometimes I used other swords, but I always had it with me. It was my mourning.”_

It was the only Dalish thing he had, right now, and it felt like too little. It was _annoying_ him.

“ _Andaran atisha,_ Rajrad Myathis Revasina,” he said pointedly.

The mage startled, then looked sheepish.

“Oh. Sorry. And your names, Brother, Sister?”

“Merrill Arasha Alerion Sabrae,” Merrill piped up. “I was First to Keeper Marethari, but - this is Marian Hawke, she’s my wife almost!”

Marian waved at him.

“Tamlen Ryatha Sabrae,” Tamlen told the mage. “I _was_ going to be Sabrae’s Second, but darkspawn are Void-cursed filth and fucked it all up. Merrill’s my sister, Theron’s our brother. You’re Satheraan’s uncle?”

“Well, I never met either of them,” he said. “But yes. I didn’t know _Arla’lanelan_ had a brother.”

“They thought I was dead.”

That killed the conversation pretty well, which was what Tamlen had been aiming for. The compounds were spaced out further now, and they were passing what seemed like an endless staked-out rope delineating where walls would go. It was marked not with banners, but with trophies - robes and mage’s staffs. 

“Oh goodness, they must have killed a _lot_ of people,” Merrill said.

“I knew it!” her human exclaimed. “Tevenes! I saw _so many_ of those robes on the Wounded Coast.”

“This is Dadhase’lin,” Rajrad told them. “They’ve started to come, but there are… a lot of them. It will take a while, and they have to come slowly in small groups to keep from alarming the _shem’len._ ”

Tamlen stopped and took a good look at the aravels parked in the area Dadhase’lin had claimed. He couldn’t even _see_ all of them from here, and there were three or five clan’s worth. And they’d only _‘started to come’_.

“That’s not a clan,” he said. “That’s its own damn city.”

“Or part of a reasonable-sized army,” he heard Merrill’s human mutter.

“They’ve fought the Magisters for seven centuries and been breaking up their slave trade as much as they can the whole time,” Rajrad said. “They’ve always been massive, because they take in the freed slaves that will stay. It makes them… different.”

It took a long time to finally pass the area Dadhase’lin had claimed. There was another wall-less compound here, also fresh and new, with a banner of crossed dar’missan.

There were- very large people moving amongst the elves, some of them half again or even twice as tall as those they worked with.

 _“Tal-Vashoth,”_ Merrill’s human said. “There are _Tal-Vashoth_ in a _Dalish camp._ ”

“They insist they’re Dalish,” Rajrad said, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. Well, so was _he!_ “The Keepers and Hahrens have tested them, and - they know the language. They know the prayers and stories as well as any of the People. They have ones who were born and grew up in the clan, and have children of their own who have only ever known the Dalish life. They’ve _taken the Oath of the Dales,_ and the Keepers gave them their _vallas’lin._ ”

“But they’re _not elves!_ ” Tamlen burst out. “It says you have to be, right in the Oath - _‘we are the last of the El’vhenan’_! Who let them get away with this!”

“No one had seen or heard from Alas’nidar’mis in over twenty years,” Rajrad told him. “My parents remember a time when they were often neighbors of ours. But they started withdrawing, and then they disappeared. Into Rivain, we found out last year. This was why. Everyone is very upset. But at least they’re not human.”

Tamlen snorted.

“Well _that’s_ a low stinking standard to set.”

Rajrad looked even _more_ uncomfortable.

“Dadhase’lin didn’t find any problem doing it.”

_“Shem’len can’t be Dalish!”_

He shrugged helplessly.

“They’ve always had humans, they said. They’d rescue slaves and there would be elves who had bonded with humans, humans who never wanted to live with others of their kind again. There are families, _human families,_ who claim they’ve been swearing the Oath and worshipping the Creators and speaking El’vhen for six centuries in Dadhase’lin.”

This was - this was _wrong!_ This was _sacrilege,_ this was _disrespect_ for _everything_ the Dalish believed, everything his people _stood for-_

After the sheer size of Dadhase’lin and the strangeness of Alas’nidar’mis, Sabrae’s aravels seemed tiny and forlorn, practically abandoned. With a start, Tamlen realized that they almost _were -_ Merrill and Theron had told him of the troubles Sabrae had had since he’d been gone, but _this-_ this hurt. Less than half the clan was here. Less than a _third,_ less than a fourth, less than - Mythal and Elgar’nan, how many of Sabrae were even _left?_

The hurt, the grief, the sadness - anger _roared_ in its wake as what Theron and Merrill had told him rushed through his head. He pushed past Morrigan and Marian and stormed into the center of camp.

 _“Marethari!”_ he roared. _“Marethari Talas Vhadan’ena Sabrae! Your clan demands answers!”_

The heavy hide flap of the Keeper’s aravel was pushed aside at once.

“Tamlen-”

“ _Six years,_ and _this_ is all that’s left?” he demanded. “Sabrae’s children, our elders - can you account for them? The ones you left to the darkspawn in the Brecilian? The ones stolen as you lingered outside Kirkwall? Did you hold funerals for them?”

From the murmuring amongst the gathered clan - _so small! -_ the answer might actually have been _no._

“What about the ones who died trying to hold the camp together on Sundermount? Why didn’t you ever send anyone to another clan for halla? Why didn’t you just pack up what you could and _walk away?_ Clans have done that before!”

“Merrill had gone to the humans,” Marethari said. “We had to stay close so she could come back.”

“Keeper,” Merrill said. “I wasn’t _coming_ back. I have Marian.”

“We saw you often for not coming back.”

“You were on the way to a lot of stuff,” Marian said.

“I miss the clans, I _do,_ ” Merrill said. “But I fit better with Marian, Keeper. I’m _happy._ ”

“You were happy with us,” Marethari told her.

Merrill dropped her eyes.

“I was happy with Theron and Tamlen,” she said quietly.

“And here is the missing one, I see,” Marethari said.

Tamlen stepped close enough to his sister to brush up against her side.

“And how could you _do_ that to Theron?” he continued. “You know how much he loves the Dalish! And _you handed him over to a human!_ ”

“And it worked in our favor, didn’t it?”

“You couldn’t know that when you sent him away! All he knew was that he was probably going to die- he wanted to die with the clan! He wanted to die with his family! With _the People,_ who know how to send him off and how much that matters to him and _him!_ Not with a bunch of _shem’len_ who’d send him to the Chantry god! How could you deny him that, how could you _do_ that to him! You condemned him to a life away from the People!”

“And I see you’ve followed him.”

“He _asked me!_ ” Tamlen shouted at her. “He gave me my choices! I could have stayed in the eluvians! I could have asked him to kill me so I’d be done with this! But _I chose_ the Wardens! _You forced him!_ ”

“I knew what I was doing,” Marethari said. “I am Keeper. It is _my place_ to make decisions for the clan-”

“For their _wellbeing!_ For their _happiness!_ ”

“-and _I_ made them. They were the right ones.”

 _“No they **weren’t!** ” _he yelled. “ _Look! Look around you!_ Where’s Vinell? Maren? Harshal, Chandan, Ineria? Variel! Terath! Paivel! _Where’s the Hahren, Marethari!_ It’s been _four years-_ where’s your new First! I was _six years ago!_ Who’s your Second!”

“I don’t need them,” Marethari said. “The clan is so small now, I can do everything that needs doing.”

“No you _can’t!_ It’s not supposed to work that way! It _doesn’t work_ that way!”

“I can make it work.”

 _“No you can’t!”_ Tamlen cried, exasperated. “You _know_ it can’t! You weren’t like this when I knew you! Where did this _pride_ come from, when your clan is _falling apart around you-!_ ”

 _“Pride,”_ Merrill said next to him. “Oh no. Oh _no._ ”

“Merrill?” her human asked quietly.

“The demon, the demon on Sundermount, _it_ was a-”

“It would have destroyed you,” Marethari said, voice kind. It made Tamlen’s hackles rise and his instincts scream. “ _Da’len,_ you never knew what sort of power you were running after. You should have left it to me. Don’t you see I’ve saved you?”

 _“No!”_ Merrill cried. “No you _haven’t - Audacity! Let her go!_ ”

“I have been waiting countless years to get off that mountain, little mortal,” the demon said. “Did you really think I would not get my way? I was bound to those stones even before the Magisters came, when there were elves still and remembered their cousins torn from them!”

Merrill faltered for a moment, and that was her weakness, the one she shared with Theron- history and knowledge meant so much to them. The same root had that had sent Merrill into blood magic had pulled Theron into those ruins.

It was important. Tamlen was Dalish and would never say otherwise. But there were things that mattered more.

He drew his sword. A moment later, Merrill caught up with him, calling layers of rock around her body, kept flexible by the magic woven through it. Merrill’s human drew her sword and the Chasind sorceress herded her son behind her, staff rising.

“You wouldn’t,” Marethari, or the demon, said. “Merrill, Tamlen-”

She stepped toward them, and an arrow struck just a hair in front of her boot, shaft and feathers quivering.

“Sabrae has never been rich in mages,” Junar said, bow strung and another arrow knocked. Fenarel was stringing his as well, as he took up a complimentary position. He and Master Ilen, arming himself with sword and shield from his forge, were distracting from Radha and her knives, sneaking around behind Marethari. “But we all learn what to do to demons, Keeper.”

Marethari looked around, expression almost sad. She raised her staff, and Merrill’s lightning met her vines.

It was a short fight, furious and laced with magic- but Tamlen had been fighting darkspawn all these years with less, and Merrill and her human had been fighting Creators-only-knew-what, and what little was left of Clan Sabrae were the ones who had survived the flight north through the Brecilian and the passage across the Waking Sea and being stranded in Kirkwall.

Merrill who struck the last blow, tears streaming down her face. It was only then that Rajrad stepped up, having left the execution of a possessed mage to her clan, as was proper. He looked at Merrill, and then around at the rest of the clan.

“Are there no other mages of Sabrae?” he asked. Master Ilen shook his head, but Tamlen spoke up.

“Theron’s son,” he said.

“Of course,” Rajrad murmured, and then louder: “Hathen, come here please.”

“And just _what_ do you wish of my son?” the sorceress demanded, holding her son back.

“A duty of the clan,” Tamlen told her. “We need three mages. All he has to do is cast fire. I know he can do that.”

She scowled, but let him go to Merrill and Rajrad.

Perhaps sensing the mood of the clan, Rajrad was the one that led the short ritual, speaking the proper words of outcasting and consigning Marethari to the Creators for the danger she’d brought to the clan. Together he, Merrill, and Kieran set Marethari’s corpse on fire. They would bury her ashes under the roots of a grown tree later, the immolation of her body preventing any more demons from finding her body and the grown tree guarding her weakened soul on its journey through the Beyond. He left the camp, afterwards, with some quiet words about going to tell the Keepers and Hahrens up in the main city of the news.

This was not the homecoming he’d wanted.

* * *

Irothal Blartera Nu’nin was still in the city, and Theron was very confused about _why._ The other crafters he’d hired were long gone. Shianni had told him, when he’d agreed to meet with him today, that Irothal had stayed because there had still been work that could be done, and he had volunteered to finish them himself so the other Dalish could start home and be well away from the city before court started.

But the mosaics were finished. So why was he still here, and why did Irothal want to see _him?_

Whatever it was for, this would be a nice change from court yesterday, and a better distraction from his and Zevran’s latest fight. He had someone set up a table in the Sun salon, in the back corner of the estate, and set up his samovar to heat while he went to fetch the honey and spices for _ise’haurasha._ He was hosting and he had to do it properly.

Theron had learned enough about how noble estates worked to make sure that he’d specified, when he’d talked to Shianni, that Irothal came in the front door. He wasn’t about to disgrace the man by having him come in the servant’s entrance back by the kitchens, and this door also had the advantage of opening right onto the first room of mosaics and murals the crafters had done.

Irothal arrived and they made their greetings, before meandering through the entrance hall to the ballroom and then into the sun salon, Theron complimenting the work that had been done the whole way and Irothal pointing out little details in the designs.

“I wasn’t expecting to see history from Sabrae when I arrived,” Theron told him, pouring the drinks. “Or to hear that you'd stayed so late to put even more effort into them. Thank you.”

“It’s your place, Hahren,” Irothal said. “We argued about what to show, but decided that commemorations of defeats, even in honor of our people and their suffering, weren’t the right omens for this place.”

But they would have been, if Anora got rid of him. The Arls after him wouldn’t keep these mosaics and the murals, would they, they’d just pull them down or paint over them, not caring about what they were defacing.

“So you put up Sabrae and her snakes instead.”

Irothal smiled.

“And Lady Haurnatha, and Lord Ilthemien, and Ghanadin and Thahoris and Misedrin and Ga’len. I’d like to see the _shem’len_ say anything about The People with heroes of the Dales looking down on them.”

“Is that why you’re still here?” Theron asked.

“No, I’m still here because I want to marry Shianni Tabris, and I wanted to ask you what it’s like living in the human world.”

Theron put his drink down.

“You wouldn’t take her to Hallarenis’haminathe?”

“She wouldn’t be Dalish,” Irothal said. “It would just make her uncomfortable, and there are plenty of other Dalish who’d be happy to shun her for it. Would you take your _sal’shiral_ to live with the clans? Permanently?”

He wanted to, often enough. _Creators_ did he want Zevran to be happy in the clans. But it wasn’t going to happen.

“Is she yours, then?” Theron asked instead.

“No,” Irothal told him. “We’re not _sal’shiral,_ but I love her all the same, and she loves me. We haven’t talked to her Hahren yet, but we will tonight. I wanted to talk to you first. I know about not showing my magic, and the human laws about elves and the alienage. I don’t mind living in the alienage. It’s a lot like a clan. But what else is there?”

“You’ll never have the nine-person quorum for rituals,” Theron told him. “You’ll always have to use the singular forms. Though you’re here and I’m here and Nehna’s here, so right now we could do the one-third forms. I used to go to Clan Velanna for the holy days, but they’re in the south now. And it will never be the same, or feel quite right, to do it by yourself. If I’d known you were here earlier I would have put something yesterday, after court, for Mythal’s holy day.”

“Did you not do anything yesterday?”

Theron looked down at his cup, ashamed to admit it. But this was another aspect of life with humans.

“I don’t do much, any longer,” he said. “I remember the days. I do the morning and evening prayers in private. I’ll sacrifice most times. I kept to it during the Blight, and right afterwards, but then I was five months in the Deep Roads and another one or so recovering, and… I slipped. I don’t keep the new month observances. I haven’t celebrated any of the founding days of our cities since I was _in_ Hallarenis’haminathe for the consecration of the temple and the first settlement. I haven’t gone into seclusion for the solitude day since before the Blight. I do Nir’saota, because that’s about loving people and family and I have my Wardens and Satheraan and everyone. And I wear mourning for the Days of Fire and for the Long Walk and for Varisathe’ebelas, because I _will not_ live amongst the humans and not commemorate our dead. But I don’t streak my face or go barefoot or any of the rest of it. Though not fasting is just because I’m a Warden, and Wardens really need to eat a lot. The rest of it is just… because it’s easier not to.”

Irothal was silent after that, contemplating, and Theron drank more because he was nervous and what if Irothal was judging him. He knew he wasn’t doing enough, wasn’t keeping the days properly, but when it was just you - it was hard, to make yourself, when no one else understood and the people you cared most about weren’t part of it.

“You have a son,” the other man said, after a few minutes. “You teach him the histories, don’t you?”

“Of course I have been.”

“But you know them, Hahren,” Irothal said. “I don’t. Not the right way. How am I supposed to teach them to my children? What if I forget the prayers?”

This was actually something he could help with.

“I’ve been writing them down, since the Blight,” Theron told him. “I started because when I came to the alienage here, everyone wanted to hear the stories. And then there was Velanna, and after I came back from the Deep Roads she’d founded her clan. They didn’t have a Hahren - they might still not have one - so I’d go and tell the stories. But I wasn’t of her clan and I don’t have the time to be Warden-Commander _and_ Arl _and_ take a Hahren apprentice, so I wrote things down for them. I’ve been thinking about doing them all, so that city elves could read them. I don’t know Clan Nu’nin’s stories-”

“That’s all right,” Irothal said. “I do. At least the most important ones, and I can write to the clan to ask for the others. We had to ask your mother before we left about Sabrae’s stories. I wouldn’t expect you to know my clan’s. But for the histories of The People, and the prayers, I would be in your debt.”

“Then I’ll finish them,” Theron promised him. “As soon as I can. Creators’ blessings and good fortune on your wedding negotiations, Irothal Blar’tera Nu’nin.”

“And on yours as well, Hahren.”

* * *

His morning had started like this:

Damien had gone into the Arl’s office after breakfast to attend him, and asked what the Arl was doing for today.

“There’s a Dalish crafter who’s still in the city, and I’m meeting him this morning. And this afternoon Leliana is coming over.”

“And who is that, Your Arlship?”

“A friend of ours from the Blight. She helped us fight it. She’s Left Hand of the Divine now.”

Damien had made his leave and then _run_ down the stairs to the Chamberlain’s office.

“Chamberlain Tabris are you aware that the _Left Hand of the Divine_ is coming for a visit this afternoon.”

_“No!”_

Everything had been a rush from that point on.

Chamberlain Tabris had grabbed someone out of the hall and sent them running to alert everyone else. She had them gather in the gallery hall along the front of the estate and gave her orders.

The Arl was using the Sun salon this morning so they would set up for the Left Hand in the Amaranth salon. The maids had to go make every inch of it spotless, immediately. No dust on the wood, no dirt on the floors, no bit of silver or brass or gold unpolished, no upholstery or tapestry frayed. The ushers and the doormen had to inspect the other public rooms and call on the maids to fix anything they found. The gardeners had to make the grounds as presentable as possible. The kitchens had to make the fanciest light refreshments they could muster in a couple of hours.

It was this last that had sent Damien and Orana out to market. The kitchens were _not_ prepared on such short notice, and Chamberlain Tabris had asked them to use their knowledge of _‘fancy foreign food’_ to come up with something. They’d conferred there in the gallery hall, and Damien had quickly dictated two recipes to the cook.

But there was a glaze for the pastries that they didn’t have the supplies for, so here they were, quickly rushing down to the east market to find Rivaini sugarcane and Antivan cocoa powder.

It was expensive, and the merchants weren’t much given to bargaining prices on imports like this. But the white shoulder sash he wore with his clothes was as good as any lesser servant’s house livery, with its gold amaranth flower embroidery and enameled pin of the bear of Amaranthine; and Damien knew well how merchants of luxury imports thought. If they were helpful and accommodating to the very rich, the possibility that the very rich would come _back_ was much higher.

And he wore the sash of a personal manservant, and Orana the outdoor shawl of a lady’s maid and companion, and it Did Not Do to offend anyone with such close and personal access to the high nobility. No one needed to know that he and the Arl barely saw each other.

So the sugarcane and cocoa were expensive, but not as expensive as they could have been.

They delivered the ingredients to the cook, and Chamberlain Tabris had them go over every bit of the estate the ushers and doormen and maids already had, because the standards of the Orlesian high nobility and the Tevinter Magisters were surely the sort of standard the Left Hand of the Divine was used to, and they would do no less.

Damien and Orana took cloths from the maids and did some of the cleaning themselves, when the maids protested ignorance of how to make things any cleaner.

His mother came in from inspecting the work of the gardeners on the grounds shortly before they were _quite_ finished with the Amaranth salon with the news that the Arl had bid his guest farewell, then swept off to check on the cook and the kitchens. Damien clapped his hands sharply, and in the absence of Chamberlain Tabris, chivvied everyone over to the Sun salon to repeat the cleaning process there.

It was finished perhaps half an hour after lunch. The Left Hand of the Divine had yet to show, but the Arl had neglected to mention a specific time, so all was well. Chamberlain Tabris got the doormen and ushers to freshen up their uniforms, as well as the best-looking of the serving maids, and banished everyone else out of sight until after the Left Hand had arrived. Damien and Tanis stayed just long enough to instruct the doormen, ushers, and maids delegated to serve the Left Hand about etiquette before retreating with Orana upstairs to sit in the salon next to the library they were using for lessons. They rested a bit, but then Orana was called away - the Amells were going out into the city for the afternoon, to avoid the Left Hand. Damien wasn’t sure _why,_ but he assured Orana that he would not hold lessons without her, and would find the children something productive and non-intrusive to do.

“It is good to see you have a friend, Damien,” his mother said once Orana had left.

“I would _never_ presume such a relationship, _Maman_!”

“I meant a friend in truth, not in euphemism,” she told him. “Though I would be far from upset if it was to become the latter. You should be happy.”

Her tone was so contrary to her wish that he got up and closed the door for some privacy.

“ _Maman_?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

Damien pulled his chair closer to hers and sat down again.

“It is not nothing, _Maman.”_

She looked at him, sadly, and then away, down at the feet of her chair.

“Satheraan has a better life than I ever could have imagined for him, last I saw him,” she said. “And _you -_ you have grown up so well, Damien, confident and assured and unashamed and you are young yet, young to be thinking of marrying or love, though with the way the Arl is paying us you will have acceptable means to court in earnest soon enough, whoever you choose. But I-”

Damien thought about it a moment, after she’d cut herself off, and came up with a dark suspicion.

“Nehna turned you down, didn’t she?” he asked.

“I haven’t _asked_ her,” his mother told him miserably. “I _know_ she won’t agree. She’s still so hurt, and she’ll say she won’t be a good enough wife for me-”

“Well,” Damien said tartly. “Given her past behavior I would have to agree with her.”

“Damien!”

“She _isn’t_ good enough to deserve to be your wife,” he said stubbornly. “But she is what you want, _Maman,_ I’ve known that since before she came to see you in Lydes. You’ve done so much for her, and all she’s done is just what you told her a couple nights ago, _run away!_ You’ve made excuses for her all your life and, while I may not be _happy_ about it, she _owes_ you _far more_ than simply agreeing to marry you for all you’ve done for her!”

“Damien, I’ve barely _seen_ her since we parted ways before Lydes-”

“Have you or have you not been her best, if not _only_ friend, for _decades?_ ” he demanded. “Did you or did you not help her raise her son, and then take me when she never cared? Have you not been her confidant? The person she turns to when her emotions are getting the better of her and she bothers to _admit_ to it? Has she not called you family- given you that same fire pendant that Chamberlain Tabris wears from _her_ Dalish, the one the Arl had his audience with this morning? You have given her so much of yourself and your care and she treats it and you like _dogshit!_ ”

“No she doesn’t,” his mother said quietly, as he sat back in his chair and composed himself, trying to banish his anger. It wouldn’t leave, only seethe under the surface. “She cares about me. I know she does.”

“Perhaps not _‘dogshit’_ ,” Damien allowed. “But still with less care and respect than you deserve.”

* * *

The Denerim estate of the Arling of Amaranthine was very grand. The gardens were still wintering, by and large, but there were some delightfully delicate early spring flowers lining the walk, crocuses and snowdrops, offset by the tall, elegant lines of hardy Fereldan Andraste’s Grace. 

She _had_ to stop to smell them. One of the liveried doormen opened the left-hand door of the estate for her, once she finally arrived at the end of the walk. _That_ was a surprisingly subtle political gesture she hadn’t expected to see outside of Orlais. Good job, Theron!

There was an usher waiting for her just inside the door, who bowed to the right depth, and addressed her properly before leading her on down a sunny gallery hallway to the most sumptuous salon she’d seen outside of the royal palace in Val Royeaux. It had the high ceilings and part-painted, part-paneled damask walls that you only ever saw in the old outmoded chateaus and mansions in Orlais nowadays. This was late Revillian style, surely the product of the time just after the Occupation. The wall damask was a fetching combination of gold and amaranth-dyed rose, showing the flowers that gave the salon and the arling their names entwined with Andraste’s Grace for Ferelden - how patriotic. A not-subtle protest from whoever had designed this room in the first place, perhaps? The paint on the unpaneled portions of the walls were a complimentary light, yellowy cream color to the damask, but the curtains on the great clear windows were pure cloth-of-gold tasseled in the same amaranth-dyed wine red as the furniture was upholstered in. Not very Fereldan, but hardly Orlesian either.

It was all wonderfully extravagant, and stylistically at odds with the entrance and gallery hall she’d been shown through, mosaicked and frescoed in what she could only assume was the Dalish style. It had its own charms, with the bold blocks and swathes of colors offset with delicate traceries, but this transition was just jarring to the eye.  

Theron did not sit well in this environment, nor Alistair. Alistair was too… Fereldan, no matter how handsome he was. If she could him to a decent tailor’s or couturier’s, _then,_ oh yes _then_ he could be fit! Rough charm, by Orlesian standards, of course, but it would be charm all the same. Sadly there would be nothing that would be able to be done about the Orlesian’s reaction to Theron’s Dalish tattoos, but if she could get him out of these - _clothes_ he was currently wearing and into something, hm, something green? No, too cliché. This deep, dark wine red would be stunning with his coloring, though. Just a _bit_ of gold, and then black, _yes!_

 _Zevran,_ however, seemed to have _his_ style well in hand. He was lounging on the day couch, in a casual state of dress - or _undress,_ as it was, artfully relaxed and unlaced with the _perfect_ air of carelessness for the surrounding opulence. His clothes _coordinated_ with the décor, of all the petty, stylish details - ugh.

He was good at this. Of _course_ he was, with his boasting and his licentiousness and - the sheer _Antivanness_ of him!

What was _he_ but a common assassin too free with his favors and merely pretty enough to make what verbal charms he had dazzle and entice? He was good enough for Ferelden, certainly, and Antiva, perhaps, but she was a trained bard of _Orlais_ and she would _not_ be taken in by this!

“You have a very beautiful house,” she complimented Theron when he rose to greet her. “It’s grand!”

“I just had the halls and the ballroom and the other salon done over the winter,” he told her. “It was bothering me, having El’vhen architecture but not the right decorations.”

 _Elven_ architecture? Well, certainly, the _inspiration_ for the Orlesian styles of the reigns of Emperors Etienne I and Reville had come from the grand old elven ruins of Halamshiral and elsewhere across the Dales, which were the styles the old Chateau Lion and then Emperor Judicael’s Winter Palace had been built in, but those were, again, _Orlesian_. And clearly the model for this estate.

How like him to find the Dalish in everything, though. Doubtless it made him feel more at home, which was always an important thing, when you lived in a foreign place.

Alistair got a big hug from her, and he just about lifted her off her feet hugging her back. She laughed and patted his cheeks as she hadn’t been able to do at court.

“Look at you, all furry like a mountain man!” she teased him. “Or a bear!”

“Why is _everyone_ on about the _beard?_ ” he grumbled.

“Oh, it is because it makes you look so good!” Leliana told him. “Handsome and distinguished! And such a strong profile! You would look very good on a coin.”

He grimaced and let her go.

“No thanks,” he said. “No coins for me.”

“She is right, you know,” Zevran said. “It is a crime that more people do not get to see your pretty face. We need a painter, or perhaps a sculptor. Yes, a sculptor, who can capture your likeness in marble and preserve it down through eternity as such a face deserves.”

The _sheer nerve_ of him! _Flirting_ with Alistair - a sweet boy who didn’t deserve this!- while his fiancé was _right there!_ She shot a look at Theron and he was just sitting there, watching, like nothing was going on.

He was- he was _used_ to this, wasn’t he? He was _used_ to Zevran ignoring him to go skirt-chasing, or pants-chasing, and he just - let it stand.

He could do _so much better_ than this. He _deserved_ better than _this._ Were there no nice Dalish? No city elves who could catch his eye? No _humans?_

Though, speaking of humans and Theron-

“I must say that I was surprised to hear about your engagement,” she told Zevran. “I knew that you and he had begun something-”

And that something had been _‘just sex’_ , she’d been sure, because what else did Zevran ever promise but a bit of fun?

“-but I was so sure the entire Blight that Theron was over the moon for Morrigan.”

Zevran smiled at her and it was not a _nice_ smile. Oh, so he was trying to intimidate her out of talking, _was_ he? He was not half so intimidating as he thought he was.

“You kept giving her all that gold jewelry, Theron. It was a very sweet courting, I thought. Even if she was not very nice.”

“She likes jewelry,” Theron said, unfazed. “It made her happy to get it. And she’s plenty nice. You just have to be friends with her.”

“She hardly encouraged it,” Leliana said. “She was very insistent about _not_ wanting friends, I remember. Or _needing_ them.”

An altogether unpleasant woman. But she would _still_ be better for him than Zevran. At least if she hadn’t run off.

“Did you ever find out where she went?”

“Yes, I did!” Theron said. “She went to the Dalish to study from them. And then she stole a book, so I had to track her down even though I’d promised not to, and got it back. She went exploring Thedas for a while, and then when Alistair and I got back from Kirkwall-”

 _They_ had been in Kirkwall? _When?_ Did _they_ know anything about how this had all blown up?

“-she was waiting for us at Vigil’s Keep. I got to meet my son!”

That completely derailed her train of thought.

“Your _son?_ ”

“Morrigan wanted a child,” Theron told her. “So I obliged her before she left. She said she was going to raise her child herself, but single parenting is hard when you don’t have a clan to help, so she came back at the end of last autumn. I got to spend all winter with them! They’re down south visiting Hallarenis’haminathe and my mother for a while, now. I was going to bring them to Denerim but Morrigan decided not to come.”

He had a _son_ with _Morrigan?_ That was- certainly unexpected; but he _would_ be the sort to just _‘help’_ someone like that. Morrigan as a mother, though. Surely that couldn’t be going well? You needed a certain warmth and care to be a mother, and Morrigan had never shown any of that. She’d wanted her _own mother_ killed!

And Theron had obliged her with that, too.

He was a good man, a nice man, kind and caring. But there were... some decisions, that she just still couldn’t square with him. Killing Morrigan’s mother. Killing that mage boy in Redcliffe. And now Zevran. People would make strange decisions when they were blinded by love, and perhaps he really _hadn’t_ felt there was another way to handle Redcliffe without using blood magic. She could appreciate the illegality of it, but - sometimes you did things because they were _necessary,_ no matter what they were, in the service of the greater good. His own mother had volunteered her life for his, as was right and proper, and-

No, it was passed. There was no use dwelling on it now.

“Tell me about him,” Leliana urged Theron. Her friend lit up and started chattering away enthusiastically about how wonderful his son was. Oh, he loved this boy _so much,_ this was so _sweet!_

She let him go on for a while, long enough for some maids to come in with drinks and oh, little Orlesian sweets! Pastries! How wonderful! And this drink was delicious.

“What is this?” she asked, looking at the warm brown liquid in her teacup. It smelled wonderful, and it was sweet with cream-heavy milk and spiced just slightly with cinnamon.

“That, my dear Leliana,” Zevran said triumphantly, and oh! She’d just complimented _his_ thing, hadn’t she! Bah! First the clothes and now this! He was _winning!_ “Is chocolate. I brought some back with me from Antiva.”

She was _not_ going to lose this.

Leliana sighed, the sound _just so_ to indicate the proper level of artful disappointment.

“Oh, I’d thought with the décor, it was surely Dalish.”

“I can make you something Dalish,” Theron offered, because he was nice like that.

“I would like that-” she said, and he started to get up to - he’d meant _right now?_ Oh, Theron.

Time to press her advantage.

“When were you in Antiva?” she asked Zevran. “Was it while Theron was in Kirkwall?”

“Oh no, that was after,” Zevran told her. “All three of us were in Kirkwall.”

“Oh?” Leliana turned to Alistair. “And what were you-”

“I’m going to go help Theron!” he said quickly, and shot out of his chair and left the room, leaving her bewildered. _That_ had been quite the reaction.

“Kirkwall was not a pleasant trip,” Zevran said. “We prefer not to speak of it.”

“I am not surprised that you would prefer not to speak of things which are not pleasure.”

“Did I,” he said. “Do something to offend you?”

Leliana took another sip of her chocolate, and didn’t deign to answer.

“Ah, so you do not wish to tell me,” he said. “Very well then. But I will not be discomforted by silence.”

They would see about _that._ Since when had he ever shut his mouth?

But she waited at least five minutes for Theron and Alistair to come back, and they didn’t. _Ugh._

“He is a nice man, and a kind man, and a hero,” she finally told him. An appropriate amount of time had passed that she wasn’t _giving in._ This was her _deciding_ to talk. “He deserves better than someone like _you._ ”

“Someone like me, hm?” he said. “And what do you mean by that, Leliana? A man? An elf? An assassin?”

“A rake and a libertine and an incorrigible _flirt_ who proudly boasts of his conquests and flippantly brushes off any attempts at true friendship. _I_ remember that you promised to be loyal to him. Was convincing him really so simple as killing an old comrade and never turning your knives on his back? Or did it take more demonstration? I imagine he doesn’t wear armor to bed.”

“Speculating on what other people’s fiancés wear to bed now, Leliana?” Zevran said, and tutted at her. “What shameful behavior for a woman pledged to the Chantry and the Most Holy Divine’s service! I am shocked!”

Either he cared so little that his joking tone was true, or he was so practiced in masks and false faces that he was covering being caught, and angry or scared because of it. Neither boded well for Theron.

“Did you seduce him as the Hero of Ferelden, lauded and covered in fame and glory?” Leliana asked him. “Or as the Arl of Amaranthine, ennobled and immersed in power and riches?”

The mask dropped. Ah, he was angry at being caught. It was a cold, hard thing on his face. If only Theron could see him like this, he had no charm _now._

 _“He chose me,”_ Zevran said, low and seething. “As _Theron,_ that _good man_ you claim friendship with.”

“I _am_ his friend,” she informed him. “Friends don’t let other friends hurt themselves- and _you_ will break his heart, Zevran Arainai.”

_“Revasina.”_

“Since when do _Crows_ love?”

“Since when do _bards_ fail to ruin other’s lives?”

She would not be very upset at ruining his, not if it kept him from breaking Theron’s heart. She was about to tell him so when Theron and Alistair came back with a beautifully-decorated vaselike metal pot and, oh, charming little cups of spices!

Zevran’s smile was back on in a flash, and he got up from his seat to help, using the excuse to be handsy and ingratiating with Theron. And he’d had the nerve to say that _she_ was the shameful one!

“I have been in Kirkwall, investigating for the Divine,” she told Theron and Alistair, once the drinks had been heated up. Herb tisane thickened with honey and spiced- it was interesting. And tasty! “When were you there?”

“Really, my dear,” Zevran interjected, slithering his way into the conversation. “ _Must_ we speak of business? Surely we should discuss happier things?”

And Theron jumped immediately to talking about how he’d been building up the Wardens, and the repairs he’d had done on Soldiers’ Peak- that’s where Alistair is in command now, Leliana, he’s good at it, just like I’d knew he’d be-

Alistair protested his leadership capabilities and Leliana sourly thought unpleasant things about Zevran. He had Theron wrapped around his fingers, that little-!

Love was truly blind. But with the Maker’s favor, Leliana would help him see.

* * *

Prince Baldewin’s mood had not improved since court. He was still particularly surly around the topic of Alistair and the Commander - Theron? Could he call him Theron? - and Fergus was hoping that it wasn’t because they’d insulted him somehow.

The Commander had already managed to insult Price Estefan and his lady, Fergus knew, because he’d invited them to this gathering at his house of the husband candidates, and he’d gotten a prompt response in beautiful calligraphy from Zashira Elius that said she and her prince would be pleased to accept an invitation to his estate, but not while the Arl of Amaranthine or his perfidious Crow fiancé were in attendance.

At least the Commander had gotten along well with Rosaire Desrochers. His enthusiasm wasn’t quite to Fergus’s tastes, but he was nice, and very eager to hear whatever stories you were interested in telling. The others were quieter, more withdrawn - but much better at circulating a room. Maxwell Trevelyan, Ser Reynaud, and Prince Sebastian hadn’t monopolized anyone like the Commander and Rosaire had each other, or how Prince Baldewin had Fergus himself, at least before he’d left early.

People were starting to depart and Fergus wished his guests would go _faster,_ because he wanted to talk to the Commander, bu they had-

“I’m sorry, what?” he said to Maxwell Trevelyan, as he realized that the man had been talking to him. Maxwell was a boy really, to Fergus’s mind. He was only twenty-one! Maxwell had the beginnings of what could be a magnificent beard and mustache, but he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. It made him look younger than he was.

“I’ve read about how the Fereldan system works,” Maxwell said. “The Queen is selling these bannorns. But I thought the Freeholders chose the Banns.”

“The Freeholders can choose to ally with whatever Bann they like,” Fergus told him. “All they’re getting with their money is the right to sit in the Landsmeet, not have any subjects. That’s why Anora is screening them if they don’t get a noble sponsor to speak for them, to make sure they fit with the culture. The ball in two weeks will be the final judgement about who gets voted on.”

“Ah,” Maxwell said. “I’ve been wondering. Thank you for explaining. This was a nice get-together. I’m looking forward to the sorts of day trips we talked about. Have a good talk with the Arl.”

Was he being that obvious? Apparently he was; but Fergus still had to ask the man to wait, because he’d been about to walk out with Alistair.

“Arl Mahariel,” Fergus said, when they were finally alone.

“You know, that’s not my surname,” he said.

“Arl Sabrae-”

“That’s my clan’s name.”

“Warden-Commander-”

“You can just call me Theron,” he said. “Dalish names don’t work well with this human surname politeness standard. I will take Mahariel. I just thought you’d want to know.”

That _was_ good to know, but this was a serious conversation that required certain formalities.

“Arl Mahariel,” Fergus said. “I would like to ask for permission to court Lady Bethany Amell.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking her?”

“That’s,” Fergus said, fumbling at the question. This had gone off script. “Well of course I won’t pursue anything if she doesn’t want me, but she’s _your_ guest, and ah, family, of some sort? If I didn’t misunderstand that?”

“Oh, not at all, she’s my sister-in-law. Under Dalish law, at least. The Chantry would never recognize it.”

“So as the head of her family-”

“I’m pretty sure that’s her mother?”

“Arl Mahariel - Theron,” Fergus said. “As the highest-ranking member of your family _you_ are the head of it. In-laws and relatives my marriage and children and parents and siblings - all of it.”

“Huh,” Theron said. “If she wants you to court her I’m not going to say _no._ It’s her choice. But if you push her I’ll run you off.”

“Absolutely,” Fergus agreed, relieved. He hadn’t _thought_ that he’d be refused but there was always the possibility. “Understood. I- could I call on her at your estate?”

“Of course. But why her? You just met her a couple of days ago.”

“Because all the other eligible noblewomen were ten or eleven or so when _I_ was getting married for the first time,” he said. “I’m sure that they’re by and large fine people, but it’s just - awkward. I can’t get away from that.”

“I’m pretty sure Bethany was probably ten or eleven then, too.”

“But I didn’t _know_ her,” Fergus told him. “I have a-”

He went to the side table where he’d hid the letter, just in case.

“This is for her,” he said, handing him the letter - and then the flowers he’d hid it under, too. “And these. Irises and lilies. For, um. They’re traditional.”

Theron looked at them.

“Don’t send the white lilies,” he said. “There was a bad experience.”

“Okay,” Fergus said, and pulled them out of the arrangement. “All right. No white lilies.”

“I like these pink ones.”

“They grow in the estate gardens. Oriana- my wife brought them. From Antiva. Cross-breeding them with Ferelden flowers to get them to survive the winter was her project. She’d finished just two years before- everything.”

“Then I’ll tell her when I give her the flowers,” Theron told him. “Tomorrow?”

“Ah- tomorrow? Yes. In the afternoon? I wanted to take a walk or talk or- however, tomorrow morning, if she’ll have me.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	6. Chapter 6

His fiancé was the one who kept waking up earlier than he had before and was maybe not getting enough sleep, but tonight it was Theron waking early, long before even false dawn, with nothing but an anxious dread of the morning.

Once the sun came up, they had their audience with Anora, about the oath.

Theron had done his best to put it out of his mind. He’d mostly managed until now, a week after court opening. The last week hadn’t been hectic but it had been busy enough.

And now, he was alone with his thoughts. It was no state to be in.

In an attempt to stave off a cycling, pointless spiral, he slipped out from under the covers and prostrated himself on the floor in prayer.

_Elgar’nan provide for my position, Mythal protect my people, Dirthamen let be known what I wish to be known, Falon’din, Lethanavir, my own god hear me and help me-_

Praying could take a long time if you did it a certain way, and Theron kept it up until it hurt to hold his position.

He didn’t really feel much better. After a few slow, deep breaths as he sat upright, everything came back.

Zevran was still sleeping. Theron got back into bed and laid on his side, watching him.

He deserved Amaranthine. Zevran deserved everything nice, after what his life had been like. He deserved the safety and security Amaranthine offered, the luxuries its riches could buy, the power and freedom the title of its High Lord would bring him.

If Theron lost it, he’d have failed the Wardens, and the Dalish, and Zevran. That was too much - too much shame, too much blame.

He couldn’t lose Amaranthine. But he couldn’t swear that oath and betray his people and everything he was.

But here in the dark, alone but for their breathing, the voice in his head was loud.

 _Swear or not, and you lose,_ it said. _But one of them makes him happy._

He could... lie. He could swear the oath and not mean it, keep Amaranthine but stay true to The People and his gods-

No, no he couldn’t. If he said it, he had to mean it. You didn’t betray something sacred.

_The Dalish will lose the only voice that will speak for them. So will the city elves. Who will protect them? No one. If you have to betray them like this to keep them safe - you aren’t worth all of them._

He’d never be able to go back. When his people found out, he’d be an exile. He’d never be able to face his own reflection. His _vallas’lin_ would damn him for the rest of his life, a constant reminder of what he’d done. He couldn’t have- he couldn’t-

He _couldn’t._

Theron lay there unseeing for some time, long enough that when Zevran stirring brought him back to himself, false dawn was greying the room.

Zevran shivered, twitched, and woke with a sharp little breath. He was still a moment, then sighed, and ran a hand down his face - then startled, minutely, when he saw Theron looking at him.

“Ah, apologies. I did not mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake,” Theron told him. “Are you-?”

“The demons still come when I sleep- _amora,_ no, do not look like that. There is nothing they can tempt me with that I do not already have. I have you and my mother and a safe home and a place to belong. What else is there?”

If he lost Amaranthine.

Satheraan had to be _safe,_ he had to be _happy;_ if he didn’t do this Satheraan would _be in danger._

“Nothing else,” Theron agreed, and kissed him, because he was going to have to destroy everything else but he could have _this,_ at least.

It would have to be enough.

They stayed there a while longer, until it was Theron’s usual time to be awake. Zevran got dressed for the day and Theron put on his armor for morning practice. They had breakfast. Sparring happened. Theron got cleaned up and out of his armor and then they went to the palace.

 _Satheraan has to be safe,_ he told himself as Elthina let them into Anora’s office. _Satheraan has to be safe._

“Warden-Commander,” Anora said, sounding distinctly unimpressed to see him. “Zevran - if you are here to tell me that Prince Estefan is going to create an incident, _please,_ let me enjoy my last few moments of a calm, peaceful morning first.”

“He is understandably displeased,” Zevran told her. “But he does not seem inclined to do anything more than avoid us as much as possible. It is actually Theron who is here to see you, Your Royal Highness.”

 _“Oh?”_ she asked harshly. “And what news do you bring, Warden-Commander? Not darkspawn, I hope?”

He had to. He _had to._

“It’s about the oath you’re requiring for the foreign nobility,” Theron said. “Zevran doesn’t have a problem with it, but I need to tell you that swearing it would violate my position as a Warden and-”

She held up a hand to stop him.

“Arl-Commander, _what_ are you talking about?”

“The oath that you’re going to have all the foreign-born nobility swear to Ferelden. I-”

“It has nothing to do with you, you’re not a foreigner.”

_What?_

“You were recruited into the Wardens _of Ferelden,_ from your home in the Brecilian Forest. You’re Fereldan.”

“I’m Dalish!”

“From Ferelden.”

“Dalish aren’t _‘from’_ human countries! We’re from our _clans!_ We’re of the El’vhen! The oath was specifically to protect Ferelden from being exploited for the interests of foreign powers-”

“Such as the cities of the Free Marches or Orlais or Antiva or Nevarra. The Dalish hardly compare.”

The Dalish-!

“Well!” Zevran said brightly. “It is very good that this misunderstanding was cleared up. Thank you for your time, my Queen.”

“Yes, yes. Now take your fiancé and go, Messere Revasina, before he says something _unfortunate_ and spoils my morning.”

“Your Royal Highness is most gracious,” Zevran said, and bowed, and _dragged_ him out of the room.

She wasn’t- she hadn’t been going to- the _Dalish-_

Zevran closed the door and Theron broke down crying.

“ _Vhenan_?”

 _“She said!”_ he exclaimed angrily. “She _said!_ I’m _not Fereldan! I’m Dalish! **I’m foreign!**_ ”

“Well in this particular instance bigotry is working in your favor. Quite unexpected, but this is an instance I will not argue-”

“ _Not_ a _power!_ We _are so!_ You know how _long_ we’ve survived! How _much_ we’ve kept and found, how hard we’ve _fought?_ I-”

“Am going to walk out and continue ranting at _home,_ ” Zevran said, steering him down the hallway. “Where the Queen cannot hear you and will not have to change her mind.”

* * *

Surely it wasn’t nice enough, but Orana had worked so hard to get something properly presentable for Teyrn Fergus’s visit this morning on such short notice that Bethany didn’t want to say anything about her worries. She’d already _worn_ her nicest dress to court, and her second-nicest one, in Amell black and red, was for the court ball for the last round of choices for selling the bannorns. So this was only her _third_ -nicest dress, a brown underdress she’d thought was rich but now just looked drab, with a cream overdress and a length of blue-green ribbon that matched her nicest dress for a belt. Her mother had made a posy of one of the nicest iris and the nicest lily from Teyrn Fergus’s bouquet and woven it into her hair. It didn’t quite match with her dress.

Oh, she was going to _ruin_ this! The _Teyrn of Highever_ was coming to ask to court her, and this wasn’t going to work!

“Here,” her mother said, reentering the room. She stepped up behind Bethany, and fastened a necklace on her.

Bethany reached up to touch it with her fingers. She could see it in the mirror- gold and rubies, but with an onyx cabochon at the center. It had an engraving, not quite clear in this light. She shifted a little, trying to get a look at it, and oh.

It was the Amell family crest.

“By right that’s supposed to go to the eldest daughter of the youngest generation of the house, when she’s of age for it,” her mother said. “It was Revka’s when I was a girl. I found it in the hidden safe when we moved back in. I knew I was supposed to give it to Marian-”

“But Marian wouldn’t appreciate this.”

“No, she wouldn’t. But you do.”

There was a matching ring, gold with a center ruby and flanking chips of onyx

“Is this,” Bethany asked, suspicion forming. “Is this wedding jewelry?”

“Not specifically. But it’s been worn at weddings for decades.”

Her mother bent over her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

“It will be auspicious. Go wait for him, darling Beth.”

It seemed like such a long walk downstairs to the Amaranth salon, and once she was there, seated on the day couch, all alone, she couldn’t help but feel more out of place. These surroundings were opulent, and she was not. She’d never _been_ a lady, not like this, not like her mother or even Marian, sort of. She’d been a country village girl, watching the big Hinterlands goats and the chickens when she hadn’t been helping her father in his little herbalism business or her mother with the sewing and mending for the neighbors. After that she’d been a refugee and a mercenary, and then almost an adventurer- and then a Circle mage. She’d never had any luxury, and she’d always had daydreams of being a lady like her mother had been, in Kirkwall.

But mages didn’t get to be ladies. She’d anticipated court to be a week or two of the closest she’d ever get to that daydream.

But now the _Teyrn of Highever_ wanted to court her! It would be- it could be nice, it could be romantic, it could be good memories, but she couldn’t- she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t agree, the Teyrn of Highever couldn’t have an apostate Teyrna! And if she let herself have just this little glimpse, this little taste, she’d always-

The door of the salon opened and Bethany rose from her seat, because there he was.

No, she hadn’t forgotten how handsome he was. Or how she liked his voice.

“Please, Lady Bethany, _I’m_ the one who should bow,” he told her, as she curtsied. “For the gift of being graced with your attention again.”

He was so much better at flirting than any of the other men who’d tried it with her, in Lothering or in Kirkwall.

“It was not a hard gift to give, Teyrn Fergus,” she said, and tried not the blush as he kissed her hand and in greeting. She didn’t think she succeeded. “You are too kind.”

“No, only honest,” he said, straightening. His eyes fell on her hair decoration. “May I assume that you liked the flowers?”

“They were very nice, yes,” Bethany said. “I am honored that you would share your late wife’s blossoms with me.”

“I think Oriana would say they went to a good cause, Lady Bethany.”

This was _far_ too much. He was- well, of course _any_ offer of courtship would be serious, but-

He really was serious about this.

Bethany wasn’t sure she had the heart to turn him down. He looked very earnest, and hopeful.

But she was an apostate, but-

She’d kept her magic secret before.

“Would you care for a walk in the gardens, Teyrn Fergus?” she asked, because yes, apparently she _was_ doing this. “They aren’t much right now, but the pines are fragrant, and the crocuses and Andraste’s Grace are blooming. I would like to hear more about you.”

He smiled at it was-

Dear Maker.

* * *

You needed nine adults for a clan, and Tamlen had nervously counted on his fingers the day before, after Marethari had burned. Junar, Fenarel, Radha, and Master Ilen, the ones he knew the best of Sabrae from what was left, that was four. He and Merrill and Theron and Ashalle, who’d come down with her bags and some help from Clan Vhadan’ena to carry the rest and started weeping uncontrollably at the sight of him and Merrill, made eight.

The rest of Sabrae’s adults numbered just four, now, and seeing them gathered around the fire for the morning meal and the discussion that had to be had was breaking his heart. Fenarel was of an age to him and his siblings, and Junar and Radha were only a bit older, which was why he knew those three the best. Reathe and Mahnas were a married couple, wives. Reathe made the best arrows of everyone in the clan, and had loved to tease the children by tickling them with the feathers too downy or thin or short for fletching. Mahnas was Sabrae’s best tracker and cook, and the sister of now-dead Maren, the old halla keeper. Rosallin and Sousil were brothers, one _still_ unmarried and the other widowed and bereft of his children by the last six years.

This was what Sabrae was reduced to - a disgraced former First, a long-lost former Second, the Master Crafter, one Crafter, five hunters, two scouts, a half-human mage child, Fenarel and Radha’s newborn Osha, and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

Hahren Paivel, he’d learned the evening before, had died soon after arriving in the city after a surviving the late-autumn sickness that had killed most of what had been left of the clan through pure spite and his own refusal to leave for the Creators before seeing the Third City that Theron had brought news of. He’d passed full of joy and at peace with the end of his long life. Master Ilen and Ashalle were their elders now, such as they had.

“We have no Hahren,” Master Ilen said, as Ashalle looked sadly at he and Merrill. “No Keeper, no First, no Second. Unless you can stay, Tamlen, and Theron can return?”

“He can’t,” Tamlen said. “He’s got a place in the human world he can’t get rid of. And I don’t know if I can come back. I’m a Warden now.”

“Keeper Velanna is a Warden,” Ashalle said. “I don’t see why you couldn’t.”

“Then I’ll ask Theron about it. I do _want_ to be Second, Master Ilen, if I can.”

He sighed, relieved.

“Then that is one thing we may have. But a Keeper and a Hahren are vital. A new First can wait, if we must.”

“Well, it would be Hathen, wouldn’t it?” Junar asked.

“He’s half-human,” Mahnas said.

“So was Feynriel,” Fenarel said. “And he’s _Theron’s_ son. Our Hahren wouldn’t let him grow up not being one of the People.”

“Theron isn’t here,” Master Ilen reminded him. “And apparently he can’t be. We need a Hahren.”

“And we _have_ one,” Fenarel argued. “We _could_ get a trained Hahren from another clan, but they wouldn’t be _ours_ and we all know it! They’ll know the stories of the People, but they won’t know Sabrae’s. They won’t know our lineages. They won’t know _us._ Theron does. He was the only apprentice Hahren Paivel ever took so he’s the _only one we have_. We can get a Keeper and a First from anywhere. Marethari was from Vhadan’ena. Merrill came from Alerion. It won’t even be hard. All the other clans are here.”

Tamlen glanced over at his sister to gauge her reaction. She seemed resigned to be regarded to outsider status. She’d almost been excluded from this gathering, and made to sit with her human and the Chasind woman across the camp, but he’d intervened and reminded the others that she just wasn’t _First_ any longer. She was still an adult of Sabrae.

“I don’t want a Keeper from another clan,” Mahnas spoke up. “The last _good_ mage we had was Keeper Mahariel. We’ve no luck with borrowing.”

“And what other choice do we have?” her wife countered. He’d forgotten that Reathe just got even more beautiful when she was debating. “Merrill is barred and the only other mage we have is Theron’s boy. He won’t be old enough to be Keeper for two decades yet!”

“The line we had was polluted,” Mahnas said. “Keeper Zathrian set werewolves on his own people out of stubbornness-”

 _Void-twisted demons,_ when had _that_ happened?

“-and Marethari was _his_ First before he sent her to us. She turned to a demon, and _both_ of her apprentices did the same! Merrill is a blood mage and Feynriel was sent away because he couldn’t keep his dreaming under control! Alas’nidar’mis brought those Qunari with them, and Dadhase’lin has been hiding humans. Can we _really_ trust that any mages we get from other clans won’t be bringing their own secrets? Their own problems that will come and consume the rest of us?”

 _“We don’t have another choice,”_ Sousil said bitterly. “Sabrae is almost dead. Fenarel’s right, Theron _has_ to be our Hahren, even if he’s far away. He can come when he can, and he can take an apprentice to train who _can_ come live with us. But even having enough people for a clan, we _can’t_ without a Keeper.”

“So don’t be a clan,” Merrill said, like it was _simple_ and like it wasn’t _unthinkable!_

Even Tamlen was turning to rip into her for _saying that_ when she realized how that sounded.

“Not stop being Sabrae!” she said quickly. “Not that! _Never_ that! But Houses don’t need Keepers!”

“There are no Dales for House Sabrae,” Rosallin reminded her stiffly.

“But this is a city of the People, isn’t it?” she said. “And this is Sabrae’s land _here._ There’s no reason we _can’t_ have our Houses and Lords again. If we want to. Lords don’t need to be mages. Sabrae wasn’t. Haurnatha wasn’t. Ilthemien was, and Ghanadin and Thahoris, but they died defending our lands and it was Misedrin who led House Sabrae away, who wasn’t a mage. Ga’len was our first Keeper, but that was years later.”    

“And _who_ would be Lord or Lady Sabrae?”

Tamlen glanced around the fire, and saw that everyone else was doing the same. No one spoke for a long moment.

“Well,” Junar finally said. “Theron?”

“Of _course_ it would be Theron,” Fenarel said. “Who else _could_ we pick? We have our Third City because of him! The People have already given him a title!”

“He’s a Lord in the human lands,” Reathe said. “It was his Wardens and his money and the people who listen to his authority that got us here.”

“He _does_ have practice,” Mahnas conceded.

“His father was our last good Keeper,” Sousil agreed.

“Is an absentee Lord any better than an absentee Hahren?” Master Ilen prodded them. “Who would lead us day-to-day?”

“You’re doing a pretty good job right now with Ashalle, Master Ilen,” Radha said.

“We don’t have to, Ilen,” Ashalle told him. “I’ve been living here for five years. I know some mages-”

“No one from Vhadan’ena, Ashalle,” he said. “I know they’ve treated you well, but Mahnas is right about that much. We’ve have enough from them.”

“That’s not who I was thinking of,” she said. “My children tell me Theron is marrying Satheraan. His uncle is First to Clan Revasina.”

“Rajrad,” Tamlen put in. “The mage who came in with us yesterday.”

“He has two daughters, both mages,” his mother continued. “His wife is very sensible, and _her_ brother is First to Clan Lavellan. Satheraan’s sister is a mage, wherever she is. It would be good, new blood for Sabrae, and new friends and allies. It would take adjusting, but both of them are good people, and well-meaning. Rajrad has even already given lessons to Hathen, when Theron brought him over the winter.”

“Would they even want to come?”

“I don’t know. But we don’t have to decide today who we want to lead us, or how. We have time to ask.”

* * *

 _Apparently_ the meeting with the Queen had gone well, even if the Arl had come back furious and had been stewing in his office ever since. Messere Revasina had said it had gone well, at least, and given that he was competent _enough_ at high society that he had recognized his and his mother’s hand behind the successful visit of the Left Hand on such short notice, and had complimented them on it- Damien was willing to give him this much.

And a little more, even, since he’d given his approval to the afternoon lessons for Orana and the children, and had not shot down the idea that Damien might expand the lessons to more people. He hadn’t thought of it until he’d heard Ser Tabris and Serrah Fenris speaking of it, but he’d found that he _would_ be willing to teach more people.

Even glad.

He had not expected this, and he had not thought that this would ever be something he’d do. If he was to teach others in the household, after all, that by default meant he would be teaching elves. In Orlais it had been too dangerous for him to be seen in the extended company of elves, in case anyone got any ideas; and in Starkhaven there just hadn’t been opportunity. But this was Ferelden, and this was the Arl of Amaranthine’s estate, and Damien had found that he _wanted_ to teach the others, he _wanted_ them to be able to read and write and know the things he did, if only so that they would have some opportunity, some chance, some defense and succor in knowledge that had been denied them.

He didn’t want Denerim to be like Orlais.

However it worked out, _if_ it worked out if he was able to bring himself to offer open classes, it wouldn’t be today. Today was regular lessons, with a new book he had picked out specially and been reviewing in the evenings in his room for content and suitability.

This afternoon was an afternoon where the Arl was not having guests and the estate was to be quiet, which was why the sight of someone who was walking up the stairs who was _not_ a servant got his attention immediately upon exiting his room.

No, not walking. Gliding. It was not the walk of an elf servant, nor his or his mother’s practiced soft footfalls, nor the unquiet striding of the Arl or his Wardens. It was entire controlled, careful, _calculated-_

An elf. Northern coloring, male, clothing that laid just not quite right on him, slightly bulky over something underneath.

The elf saw him watching and faced him straight on.

Tattoos.

 Damien stood there at the top of the stairs holding the book and the Crow came up one, two, three more steps-

The children were just down the hall, in the room with Orana. Clingy Diego and thorny Tiar hadn’t said anything about their pasts but Damien had read it in the way they watched rooms and their hair-trigger nerves and more things, things he couldn’t name but things he _saw_ and things he heard them not say, and he knew them. He had seen it often enough in the most cowed elven servants, in Orlais and in Starkhaven. They had been _hurt_ and they _would not be hurt again._

“And _who_ are _you?_ ” Damien demanded, looking down his nose at the Crow below him.

The Crow smiled at him. It wasn’t Messere Arainai’s conciliatory smile or his friendly smile or his socializing smile. It was insincere and threatening.

“Does it need to be your business?”

“It is _entirely_ my business when an unannounced _stranger_ is found about to intrude across the periphery of my employer’s area of private residence.”

“I’m not a stranger. I know-”

“The Arl is receiving no guests today,” Damien cut him off. The Crow was only a five steps below him now.

“So the Arl tells _you_ everything?”

“I am His Arlship’s _personal_ manservant,” he told the Crow, putting every ounce of pride and arrogance he could muster into it as he raised his voice a little. The assassin was close, and Damien couldn’t fight. “I know his schedule and I know his guests-”

He stepped sideways and blocked the Crow’s path as the elf tried to go past him and set foot off the staircase.

“-and he is having _none_ today-”

Another sidestep, in the opposite direction, hastily. The Crow was only one step below him and very, very close.

“-and if _you_ had entered this estate _legitimately,_ ” Damien said, yet louder again. If the children heard him, maybe they would run. “You would be accompanied by an usher or other servant in livery and as you are _not_ and as you will not give your name _and_ as you are being _antagonistic_ and _disrespectful of my personal space_ it is _very_ clear to me that you are _not_ an unexpected guest but an _intruder!_ ”

“Think what you like,” the Crow said.

Damien moved to step in front of him again, but he did- something, Damien wasn’t sure what, but _he_ was facing the wall of the stairwell and the _Crow_ had managed to get past him into the hallway.

The hallway where Diego and Tiar were two doors down.

 _“You do not have **permission,** Serrah Crow!” _Damien yelled at the assassin, and struck him across the back of the head with the book. He stumbled. Damien dropped the book and grabbed him by the back of the shirt and the top of his pants. “If you will not _leave_ you will be _forcibly removed_ from the premises!”

The Crow was going to straighten up. Damien applied a judicious knee to the space between his legs from behind-

And _that_ was why his clothes fit wrong. He was hiding armor underneath this, and Damien’s knee hit the hard leather of a codpiece instead of soft flesh.

The Crow twisted and Damien’s hold broke and _knife!_

He jerked his head aside and the blade scored across his cheek, down over his jaw and past his ear and into his hair in a line of pain. The Crow raised his knife again and the Arl came out of nowhere, snarling, and barreled into the assassin shoulder first. He slammed the Crow into the wall of the stairway hard enough to make the floor shake, and they made a banging racket as they fell down the stairs together.

His fiancé pulled up at the top of the stairs and took his arms, trying to guide him into sitting. He was saying things, something-

He reached up and moved Damien’s hand from his face to look at the wound.

“There’s a lot of blood,” Damien finally managed to say, unable to look away.

“Not so much. It only seems like much because head wounds bleed terrifically.”

He wasn’t talking about himself. He tugged on the other man’s shirt, trying to get his attention, trying to get him to look.

“It is a relatively shallow wound, nothing that should not be an easy fix. Simply keep it clean-”

“No, that’s not- it’s- there’s- behind you, Satheraan, the- down there-”

The Crow was gone, and the Arl was lying across the bottom of the stairs in pooling blood.

* * *

_“Lord Mac Maric! Lord Mac Maric!”_

That was the screaming of someone scared. Alistair knew it well by now. He and Lockard stepped away from each other, swords lowering, as Orana skidded into a stop on the gravel.

“My Lord,” she said. “The Warden mages, Lord, they are needed- the Arl has been hurt and if he doesn’t get healing magic-”

They were _in the estate._ What sort of trouble could Theron have _possibly_ found?

“They should be in their quarters,” Alistair told her. “Hallway behind the drawing rooms-”

She turned in a whirl of skirts and ran off again.

“Excitable, isn’t she?” Lockard said.

“Tevinter would do that to you, I bet,” Alistair said, and raised his swords. “Here, show me again-”

A few minutes later Shianni came barreling by. They stopped again, and Alistair turned to watch her go, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. She was headed in the direction of the stables, and soon after Nehna on her halla went running flat-out for the gates, with another halla following behind.

“Shianni!” Alistair called when she came dashing by again, reaching out to stop her. “What’s-”

“There was a Crow!” she said. “In the house- they fell down the stairs and the Arl cracked his head open and the Crow stabbed him through the ribs!”

Alistair sheathed his swords and he and Lockard and Andreas ran with her back into the estate.

_“What do you mean neither of you can heal!”_

“Fen!” Alistair ordered the mabari, voice loud to carry over the noise at the bottom of the stairs. “Fen, back off! Zevran, you too!”

“Alistair your mages can’t _heal!_ ”

“Zev, if you’re panicking you’re not-”

It took some effort to wrestle him away from Theron. That was a worrying amount of blood.

“Amell, Surana, neither of you can heal?” he demanded, holding Zevran back. “Not even a little?”

“No,” Amell said faintly.

“All right, then we need to send for Anders. Which of you rides better-”

“A ship would be faster,” Shianni said. “Send Kallian.”

“Right- Amell, Surana, go get her told what’s going on and in her armor, she’s on the Arl’s business! Shianni, get her gold for the ship, if she needs to pay off somebody to leave _right now_ that’s what she’s going to do-”

Lockard was trying to hold the wound on Theron’s side closed, and Andreas was gently feeling around the back of his head, presumably where he’d smashed it open on the stairs. Zevran had stopped fighting him and had pressed his face into Alistair’s chest. He could just hear him whispering prayers, and hugged him with one arm, running a hand up and down his back.

“Diego!” Alistair yelled, seeing the children poking around the corner of the hallway into the stairwell up on the second floor. “You know where the medicines are stored, right? Go get bandages! Tiar, we’re going to need a blanket, big enough for Theron to fit on!”

“No,” Zevran muttered. “No, no, no-”

He started pushing on Alistair’s chest.

“ _No,_ his _skull,_ there are bone fragments-”

“He _can’t stay here,_ ” Alistair said, and had to struggle with him again momentarily. “We _have_ to move him!”

They had to get him upstairs, and behind a door that would lock.

“Damien!” he called. “Damien!”

Alistair knew he was being loud enough, the children had heard him from down here.

_“Damien!”_

The man finally responded, jumping a little.

“I-”

“Get Bethany Amell into Theron’s bedroom, get all the doors between here and there propped open, and get as many layers of cloth covering the mattress as you can!”

Damien stayed frozen a moment and then went to follow his orders.

Tiar returned with a blanket; Diego with bandages. Alistair traded places with Lockard to get Theron bandaged up, and then he and Andreas got the blanket under Theron. Alistair and Lockard were the ones who carried him up the stairs on it, and Andreas closed the doors behind them as they passed through.

Bethany was in the room helping Damien put more blankets and sheets on the bed when they got there. They put Theron on the bed and Alistair asked:

“Can _you_ heal?”

“Only- only a bit-”

“Then you’re the best we’ve got right now, do what you can.”

Damien got a chair for her and she sat down next to the bed, magic blooming around her hands.

“Zevran,” Alistair said. “Zevran- hey, Zev! Look at me!”

“He-”

“ _Yes,_ he’s hurt, but he’s survived a lot and _this isn’t going to kill him. Look at me._ ”

He did.

“Shianni said there was a Crow. Do you know-”

“I didn’t- I did not see him, I- Damien-”

“You saw him, Damien?”

“Yes, Lord-”

“Great, describe him to Lockard. Lockard, when he’s done you go down to the city guard. Speak to Kylon, he’s in charge, give him the description and tell him what happened and _not_ to try to take this Crow in, just report if he’s seen. We don’t need to get Kylon’s people hurt for this.”

Lockard took Damien and ducked out.

“Andreas, you get the blood cleaned up downstairs. Get Amell and Surana to help and have them scour with fire if that’s what you need to get it all out-”

“-and burn used rags.”

“Yeah, that. We’re not spreading Taint to the servants, okay?”

Andreas went off and Alistair pulled Zevran into the sitting room outside the bedroom and sat him down, closing the door between the two. Diego and Tiar were here, hovering or lurking or somewhere in between-

“Diego, go find out if there’s anyone in this house who knows anything about herbalism-”

“I,” he said, voice trembling. “I know plants.”

“Zev?”

“He,” Zevran said after a moment. “Yes, he was helping Anders and Anders was impressed enough to mention to me- and the Crows, they do teach some things-”

“Then go get what you need from the house and go help Bethany, Diego,” Alistair ordered the boy. “Tiar, go to Shianni, have her send somebody for more bandages and anything else Diego thinks he needs and ask her if there’s a decent _proper_ herbalist or doctor or _something_ in this city!”

They left and okay, all right, that was it. He couldn’t think of anything else to do and they were alone in this room and, yes, this was the end of his calm and his focus because Theron was bleeding a _lot_ in the next room over and they’d been _stupid_ and not brought a mage who knew anything _real_ about healing _even though_ they should have _known_ better, Theron _always_ managed to find trouble, or get himself into some, or-

Alistair sat down next to Zevran, put his arm around him, and they leaned into each other for support.

“What if he dies?” Zevran whispered.

“He won’t,” Alistair said, trying to convince them both. Without a healer- “He _can’t._ ”

* * *

The estate was in an uproar when Tanis returned from picking up packages at the tailor’s. She was almost at the servants’ gate when Nehna came racing up the street behind her on Eirlin, and the crafter Iro on his halla behind her. They passed Tanis and she sped up, reaching the stables as Nehna was walking out.

“What happened?” Tanis asked.

“There was a Crow,” Nehna told her. “Damien-”

Tanis didn’t wait to hear the rest. Her _son-_

_“Damien! Damien!”_

The Wardens were cleaning up blood at the bottom of the staircase. He wasn’t in his room or her room but the door next to the library was open and-

_“Damien.”_

Her son was sitting in front of the fireplace on a thick rug, hunched over a bit. Satheraan was sitting with him, an arm around him and a teapot and cups and a bottle at their feet. Lord Mac Maric was at the table with the elder Lady Amell and Orana. Tiar was wedged up against the fireplace in the warm corner where it met the wall, clutching a knife and staring at Satheraan.

“ _Maman_ -”

“Damien, _Damien_ are you all right?” she demanded, falling to her knees and turning his face so she could look at him. He didn’t seem to be bleeding, but he was leaning heavily on Satheraan. “Your _eyes,_ can you even see me? Damien, focus, _please-_ ”

“‘m all right,” he said vaguely, and tried to pat her reassuringly, but missed entirely.

“You are _not!_ ” she exclaimed. “Your- your _cheek!_ ”

“It is just that cut,” Satheraan assured her. “It has been cleaned and will heal. The rest is he was going into shock and so I made hot drinks. Heavy milk, chocolate, a little embrium, cinnamon to mask that flavor.”

Embrium. _That_ was why her son was uncoordinated and drowsy.

“And the bottle?” she asked.

“Ah,” Satheraan said. “Vodka. For mine.”

A _Crow_ had attacked the estate and he was getting _drunk?_

“What if the Crow comes back!”

“I am not drunk,” Satheraan said. “I hear you thinking it. I am _tipsy._ Fighting tipsy is better than fighting panicked, which is what would be happening if I was not doing this, because we have no healing mages and Theron smashed his head open on the stairs falling and the Crow slit his left lung and it is a very large cut and it is a day to Amaranthine by boat and a half day on a horse so it will be three or three and a half days for Anders to come because we did not think we would need him-”

He stopped, tipped the bottle over his cup of chocolate, and drank most of it.

“Apologies,” he said. “I have not had enough alcohol yet. Alistair continues to insist that Theron will not die, but _he_ has never killed someone slowly before. I am very almost to the point of not caring now, I think.”  

“You can’t stay drunk for _three days,_ ” Lord Mac Maric insisted from the table.

“I am not drunk!” Satheraan replied, too loudly. “And if Oghren could survive the Deep Roads to even past the Dead Trenches drunk than I can do _this_ tipsy.”

“Consider that I’m not going to _let you._ ”

“You cannot stop me.”

“Uh-huh. You’re going to be sick later and it’s just going to make you feel worse.”

“But _right now,_ ” Satheraan said. _“Right now- **braska!**_ ”

Tanis grabbed the bottle before he could, and put it out of reach on the hearth.

“Satheraan, _stop!”_ she told him in Antivan. “It never helped your mother and it’s not going to help you!”

Behind him, Nehna shifted uncomfortably. Satheraan looked at her with wide eyes, and then turned to the rest of his drink.

“If- if you need to not think then go to _sleep!_ ”

“No. No, I _must not._ I know the results of this situation and it will not go well. I will not wake up and if _he_ does then I will have- he will- it would-”

“That is _not_ happening!” Lord Mac Maric said hotly, and Tanis didn’t know what they were talking about, but she knew who _wasn’t_ helping. She fixed Nehna with a look and jerked her chin down at Satheraan, eyebrows raised pointedly.

Nehna put a hand on his shoulder.

“I brought the crafter,” she told him. “Irothal Nu’nin. All Dalish mages learn enough healing to keep an injured clanmate alive until the Keeper can attend to them.”

“And when are Keepers ever three days away?”

* * *

“Queen Anora thought you would appreciate the warning, Prince Estefan,” the Queen’s elf maid told him.

“We do appreciate it,” he said. “Please tell Her Royal Highness that. We are grateful she thought to send us the news that a Crow has been discovered in the city.”

The maid curtsied, and departed. Estefan closed the door of the suite of apartments they’d been given in the Gwaren estate, locked it, and then stormed into the second sitting room.

“Were you trying to _please_ me?” he demanded, careful not to yell no matter how much he might want to. Fereldan walls were thick, but someone might still hear. “I _called you here_ so you could _explain_ how you could tell me that Zevran Arainai was _dead_ but yet he’s _here! Not_ so you could _kill him!_ ”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” the Crow in the sitting room said. “I went to yell at him.”

“And that involved _attacking the Arl of Amaranthine!_ ”

“ _He_ attacked _me!_ ” Salvail Arainai shot back. “ _I_ was defending myself and _he_ threw us down the stairs! He fell on my knife and I pulled it out and ran!”

“The messager from the _Queen_ I just spoke to said that he was seriously injured and might be _dying!_ That is _more than ‘he fell on my knife’_!”

“I wasn’t going to stay there to _check_ on him! _Zevran_ has lost his mind over the man-”

“And how do _you_ know?” Estefan demanded. “If you hadn’t known he was still _alive,_ and spoken to him!”

Salvail sat up very stiffly.

“He was in Antiva,” he said. “Since Satinalia at least, until a couple weeks ago. I saw him. We talked a little. I wasn’t _done_ with him, which is why I went over there to yell at him.”

“I have been _paying you_ for information _ever since_ I found out what House my daughter ended up in and you didn’t _think_ to _write-_ ”

“I thought he was dead! Again! He was killing Talons, and then the Wardens he’d fallen in with were in Antiva City and fighting Crows! He’d claimed the Dalish one _loved_ him, and if you want to provoke someone, you kill people they love! Those Wardens were _very provoked!_ They left a trail of dead Crows through the City!”

Zashira’s fan snapped shut, loudly. The sound cut through the moment of silence between them.

“He was killing Talons?” she asked.

“He admitted to being the one to kill Eoman Arainiai and his lieutenants and breaking the House,” Salvail said. “And Grandmasters Runn and Availa. I _saw_ him kill Master Escipo.”

“And the Wardens killed Crows?”

“Plenty of regular ones. Masters d’Evaliste and Lanos, and-”

That was most of the Talon Houses he knew, Estefan realized in the Crow’s pause.

“He killed your brother,” the Crow said. “The Dalish one. Turned him into a bloody smear outside the gates of the Fort Palace.”

No. No, that couldn’t be possible.

“Claudio is dead?” Zashira said.

“He’s dead, and Masters Ibarra and Desoto were killed by _somone_ in the fallout of it all, and _now_ the Crows are little better than nothing,” Salvail said bitterly. “it’s _anarchy._ I’d call it a civil war but more people are running than are fighting, and the ones with the best claims already tried to take over and destroyed each other and there’s only _one_ -”

“And so _that man,_ ” Estefan cut him off. “ _That elf,_ the one who- you might have _killed his fiancé!_ Everyone knows we hate him! If the Arl of Amaranthine dies, they’re going to say that _we ordered it!_ _That-_ Zevran Arainai is going to come _here,_ and you - _you_ have put _my daughter_ in _danger-_ ”

“He won’t touch your daughter,” Salvail said. “Not to take her to the Crows and not to kill her. He told me some of his _new opinions_ when I saw him in Antiva. He _wants_ the Crows to fall, he says we’re wrong to exist and _hates-_ ”

“You are very insolent for a fourth-rate assassin,” Zashira said coolly. “Particularly when _we_ are the ones paying _you._ ”

“Everything’s fallen apart. I don’t have anything left to lose.”

“Out,” Estefan ordered him. “ _Out. Leave,_ get- find another room! If I feel like talking to you again, I’ll call!”

Salvail looked at him sourly and disappeared. Zashira was right, he _was_ insolent now. If he had Zashira get Haida, and they ran for the guards - that would be one less Crow.

“Claudio is dead,” Zashira said after a moment, voice trembling.

“He can’t be,” Estefan said. “He’s too good.”

“And why- there are reasons for him to lie about this, but _why-_ ”

“He’s not dead. Some woods-savage Warden could never do that. He’s _lying._ He’s trying to placate us.”

“But I _want_ him dead,” Zashira said. “I _want him-_ he _deserves_ to be dead and I _want_ to believe him-”

“And that’s why he said it,” Estefan told her. “We need to decide what we do, _amora,_ if the Arl dies. Or if Zevran Arainai finds out the Crow is here.”

* * *

Zevran lasted a little more than two days. When he first started struggling to stay awake, he drank tea. When that stopped working, he added ginger to it, and kept drinking.

He sat in the bedroom he and Theron shared, watching. Bethany Amell and Irothal Nu’nin would switch off, one resting as the other worked. Of the two, Irothal was better, but there was still little they could do. They’d kept Theron from bleeding to death, but his lung wasn’t healed. They’d managed to pick out the small bone fragments in his skull and started encouraging the larger pieces to fuse back together, packing everything in place with gauze and bandages- but that didn’t mean much. Zevran had known people to hit their heads badly, get up just fine, and walk around until they fell asleep and never woke up, or just dropped dead.

And Theron hadn’t woken up. One of the times he’d gone to get more tea, Irothal had claimed that Theron’s eyes had opened while he’d been gone, but it didn’t- it couldn’t mean anything, not when he hadn’t spoken and his pupils didn’t react to a candle or a little bright light cupped in Irothal’s hand right next to his face, and his breathing was still wet and strained.

They’d been feeding him on spoonfuls of a slow-cooked soup of good meat boiled down to broth and cracked bones thrown in to add in the marrow, standard Warden sick fare, for bodies that needed to feed the Taint to keep it from consuming muscle and bone and organs and _life,_ and _spreading,_ but if he didn’t wake up, if he couldn’t-

“You should eat,” Irothal had said a couple of hours ago, when he’d heard Zevran’s stomach rumble.

Zevran hadn’t replied, because he’d been using his hunger to keep him awake and couldn’t admit that to someone who didn’t know _why_ he couldn’t fall asleep.

But now he couldn’t fight it any longer. He could barely stay awake, and all that had gotten him out of the chair and staggering out of the room was that flocking demons might disrupt the mages, and an abomination would-

“You look really bad,” Alistair said, when Zevran stumbled through his doorway.

“I am going to sleep-”

_“Good.”_

“-I need you to watch me.”

“Sounds creepy.”

“Necessary,” Zevran said, and tried not to just collapse into Alistair’s bed. He sat down and did _not_ let himself fall back onto the mattress. He was wearing his shoes, they had to-

“It’s really not _‘necessary’_ ,” Alistair said, and he was at his feet, tugging off his boots. Zevran could do that himself, the laces were just being difficult at the moment. “But if it would make you feel better to have someone here, I will. I’ll wake you up if anything happens with Theron.”

“You _must_ stay,” Zevran told him, because this was important. “ _Yes_ necessary. You were a Templar.”

“Yeah? So? If you’re trying to make a joke about constant surveillance, it’s not in very- oh, _flames no!_ I am _not_ doing that, Zevran!”

“You _must._ The demons-”

“Won’t get you! You hear me, they won’t get you, because you’re _better_ than that!”

“I am not better than grief,” Zevran told him bleakly. “I am not better than temptation, or trickery. Theron- I _need him,_ Alistair, I _need him_ and this-”

“He’s _not_ going to die, and you have to be here for him when he wakes up! Or do you want _him_ to be the one grieving, instead!”

If it meant that Theron lived, right in this moment, Zevran wasn’t sure it wasn’t something he’d agree to. Alive Theron was better than dead Theron, even if he wasn’t here to see it.

 _“No,”_ Alistair said vehemently, and Zevran was too tired to know if he’d said that out loud or if his silence had spoken for him. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re scared and you’re stressed and you’re _tired_ and _hungry_ and you haven’t been taking care of yourself! _Everything is going to be fine._ ”

“Get your sword,” Zevran told him.

“Lie down!”

“Get your sword.”

“No!”

“Then I cannot sleep,” Zevran decided, and tried to get off the bed. He didn’t move. This was very simple - his hands were on the mattress, were braced properly. He just had to push. But nothing was happening.  

“I won’t get my sword,” Alistair said after a moment. “Unless you _promise_ me you’re going to wake up yourself, because you’re not going to listen to the demons.”

“If they tell me Theron is dead-”

“You have those kids to look after, and there’s me and Morrigan, and Fen will need somebody, and so will Ashalle and Merrill and Tamlen! You just found your _mother,_ Zevran! And Kieran calls you _‘Papa’_ , did you forget that? _Theron_ is not dying, and _you_ are not dying! You both have too much to live for!”

But he was losing him. He was losing Theron. He was too good, too nice; and they were _betrothed_ so _of course_ it couldn’t last, he couldn’t have this. He didn’t deserve this, he shouldn’t have gotten attached, he should have died on that road on Theron’s sword and Leliana was right, Theron could do so much better than him.

“Promise me,” Alistair said again, softer and gentler and closer.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do that, he wasn’t strong enough for this.

_“I need him.”_

“Yeah. Yeah, I know you do. Me too.”

Zevran waited for him to go get his sword, but he didn’t. It took longer than it should have for him to realize what Alistair was doing, and by that time he’d already stripped off his overshirt and belt and gotten his own boots off.

“Alistair-”

“Can’t do it,” Alistair said, dropping down onto the mattress next to him and wriggling around until he was on the other side of the bed. He grabbed Zevran from behind and pulled him down, and what was going on here?

“Alistair-”

It was so _hard_ to stay awake, now that he was lying down. Alistair was warm and comforting behind him, and his arm over Zevran’s side as he arranged them comfortably was heavy, protecting.

“Can’t listen to demons,” Alistair told him. “Because if you turn into an abomination then you’ll kill me too. Can’t have that, can we?”

“No,” Zevran whispered. He couldn’t be responsible for that.

He fell asleep crying, his and Alistair’s hand curled up together against his chest.

* * *

Three days could be a long time to wait for magical healing. Anders would be more optimistic about the Commander’s chances, because he _was_ a Spirit Healer, after all, and Spirit Healers could do a lot to help that ordinary mages or herbalists couldn’t. You basically had to be already dead for a Spirit Healer to be able to do _nothing_ to help, much less get you as recovered as you possibly could.

The slight problem in this case was that he was missing a vital component of this equation, namely the _spirit._

He’d been _trying_ to fix it! Not as hard as he could have, maybe, but he’d been _trying!_ He just couldn’t attract another spirit. The closest he’d gotten had been a spirit of Purpose, but it had gotten close enough to take a good look at him and said: _‘Ah, Justice’s mortal’_.

And then it had _left!_

He _wasn’t ‘Justice’s mortal’_! He’d gotten away from that!

Anders kept trying, on the ship on the way to Denerim with Ser Tabris. He’d brought potions to make him sleep and dream lucidly, and plenty of lyrium, and he took enough of both to stay in the Fade for a long time. He called, and he called, and he called - but no spirits came.

 They arrived in Denerim. They started putting in at the dock and Anders had to admit defeat. He’d have to do as good a job as he could without any spirit help. And it would still be pretty good, he told himself, because a spirit was just supposed to help steady things and hold complex spell work and manage some of the _really_ fiddly bits, but he’d been doing this for years! And in some really bad conditions. He could do this!

He got to the estate and saw the Commander and had some second thoughts.

No, he couldn’t afford to second-guess himself now. Bethany had sagged with relief in her chair when he’d walked in the door, and she was relying on him. Everyone was relying on him.

The side wound first. He unwrapped the bandages and examined the wound. A slit lung, collapsed - dangerous and painful.

“When was the last time he was awake?” Anders asked Bethany.

“Yesterday,” she said tiredly. “Maybe a minute. I don’t know if he knew what was going on or where he was or any of that, he only muttered some things in El’vhen.”

Well, language was a good sign. Being conscious for more than that would have been even better, but he could do this.

He _could._

Bethany gave him her chair, and he sat down by the bed, hands over the wound. There was damage from misplaced air, and that had to be drawn out to keep things from getting worse. So long as the Commander was still breathing, though, air would leak. He’d have to do both at once.

It was a struggle. He’d start to heal the lung and then draw air out, and one would go too fast or the other too slow and he’d lose both. He tried five, six, seven times before he stopped himself, lowered his hands, opened his eyes, took his own breath.

“Anders?” Bethany asked.

“I’m thinking,” he told her, and tried to look composed. He couldn’t- he _could,_ he _had to,_ he didn’t have a spirit. He’d kept the residents of Darktown alive in Kirkwall for years, he could do _this!_

He had to go in increments, healing the lung a little, drawing out a little air, healing the lung more, drawing out more air. It was slow going, and it used up a _lot_ of his power, but after what felt like hours, the Commander could take full breaths again. They were wet, which wasn’t good, but he wasn’t in danger of shortness of breath or trapped air rupturing things that really should not have had pressure put on them in the first place.

Maker, he was tired.

Time for more lyrium. With the ship voyage just behind him, he knew he was overdoing it, but he’d have time to collapse _later._ He had to deal with the Commander’s head wound now.

Skull fracture, he found when he probed with magic. Partially healed, but not much. No bleeding outside, but bleeding inside, and very, _very_ small pieces of bone that would have to be reattached somewhere, or dissolved.

It was too much, and he couldn’t do it. He was too tired and he didn’t have a spirit. Maybe he could get whatever was in the Commander’s lungs out. Blood, probably, but it could be something harder to deal with-

_I will help._

Healing, more than any other magic, took you into the Fade. It was easy to hear spirits and demons here, and this was the foundation of Spirit Healing. In another circumstance, he would have cried with relief to _finally_ hear an offer of help and partnership - but he _knew_ that voice.

 _I got rid of you!_ he snarled. _I don’t want you! Go **away!**_

 _You need me,_ Justice said.

_No! **No!** I’m back with the Wardens! The Chantry is **already** eyeing Vigil’s Keep! I don’t need this, and neither do you, and the other mages don’t either! Leontius and Neria-_

_I will not leave._

_You will! You’re **going** to!_

_He will not heal,_ Justice said. _You cannot do all you need. You require assistance. Another set of hands._

_I can do it myself!_

_It would be an injustice for him to-_

**_Shut up! SHUT UP!_ **

_Justice will not be silenced-_

Anders blasted fire across the Fade. With his physical eyes, he had the vague awareness of Bethany jumping in alarm as she felt the heat against her spirit.

 _The Love you partnered with before accepting me is gone,_ Justice said, undeterred by the fire. _It will not return, now that you have had me._

_I don’t want you!_

_We were friends, once, Anders. I would-_

_That was **before** I started having those thoughts! About the Chantry! About what I might **do-**_

_Thoughts are simply thoughts, in the mortal world,_ Justice reminded him. _They mean nothing there unless you act on them. You did not act on them._

_I **might have!**_

“Anders?” he heard Bethany ask. It was distant.

_But you did not. It is unhelpful to think on it. Discipline yourself._

_It’s not that easy!_

_I did not tell you not to think, Anders. Accept the thoughts. Move past them._

_I don’t want to be that kind of person!_

_Then do not be,_ Justice told him. _Leave your grievances aside for the moment and heal the Commander, with my help. If you still wish me to leave afterwards, if you feel that my presence would be unjust to yourself, or to me, or otherwise damaging- then I will leave. But we were friends, once, Anders, and I would like to be again. I value you. I value the Wardens, and I value the man you have been called to heal._

“Are you all right?”

_He is my Commander, too._

He was, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he and Justice fought together, to defend Vigil’s Keep? Hadn’t Justice wielded true sword and shield right alongside the Commander’s? Justice had been a Warden - _was_ a Warden. He was in the registry in Nathaniel’s office. He’d worn the armor.

He was _still_ wearing the armor, Anders saw, as he focused on the Fade, and let the waking world fall away. Justice was a Warden from pauldrons to boots, from the heraldry on the sword on his arm and the wings on the helmet he held.   

“You have your own face” Anders realized.

“Yes,” Justice said. “Zevran was surprised, as well.”

“You’ve been talking to Zevran?”

“We both had business in Antiva. Mine did not-”

It was strange, seeing expressions on a spirit, stranger than a real face.

But not wrong.

“Mine did not end so well,” Justice said, his face shadowed. “I- I have tried. I _tried -_ I succeeded. Or I thought I did. Logically it should not be my fault, but-”

“We’re going to talk about this,” Anders told him. “But _later._ ”

It was just something - Justice had his own face, now. And if he wasn’t going to be possessed, if he was just going to be helping like any spirit would.

If he had his own face, he was his own person, wasn’t he? They weren’t the same people. They couldn’t be.

Anders held out his hand. Justice looked at it, expression matching the ambient feeling of surprise and - pleasure? - that suffused around them.

Justice looked up, smiling, and clasped his hand in return.

“My friend.”

_“Anders!”_

Bethany shook him back awake, and Anders rose from the chair, familiar blue bright and pulsing around his hands, and pushed the healing magic into the Commander.


	7. Chapter 7

Every Chantry had a crematorium. In rural villages, it was as simple as a back room where bodies were kept until the burning could be done, and designated spot and woodpile out behind the building. In towns, it was an added complex tucked away in one of the back corners, all brick with a room for keeping bodies to be burned, one for the laying-out, and then the pyre room itself, the center of the roof raised a few feet above the rest to provide a path to vent the smoke and heat. In the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, where the bodies of the Divines were burned, it was said that the pyre was a solid block of marble standing over a coal furnace, with hidden flues for airflow and a bed cut in the top so that it seemed like a miracle of the Maker, stone burning to consume the mortal remains of the Most Holy.

The crematorium of the Grand Chantry of Denerim was a stone building with a brick pyre platform. In the usual manner of things the Revered Mother of Denerim would be presiding, for the death of high nobility, but circumstance had left her as the second-highest Chantry official in the city.

Leliana was the one who presided over Theron’s funeral, as Left Hand of the Divine and as a friend of his.

Magic had not been enough to save him. There had been bleeding in his head, and his injured lung had been weak. They weren’t sure if his head had been what had killed him, or if he’d drowned on blood first.

The single mercy was that he hadn’t been conscious for any of it.

Andrastean funerals were generally quick things. Bodies left unburned prevented the cleansing of the soul necessary to meet the Maker, folk theology said. Chantry doctrine held the time limit as a practical concern - intact bodies were easy to possess, and the Veil was weakened around death. So Theron’s body had been taken out of the estate within the hour, for the protection and preparation of the Chantry.

Zevran would have protested. Theron would never appreciate this, being dressed in the long white tunic for the ashes of the body and the cleansing of the soul, and set alight. He deserved a Dalish burial done exactly to standards.

A grave dug by his clan. Washed and dressed in his armor, provided with his sword and shield. Wrapped in the bright green traveling cloak of the dead and placed in the grave with oak staff for the journey and cedar branch to drive off Fear and Deceit, the ravens Dirthamen could no longer control. Buried to the songs and prayers, and the mourning lowing of the halla.

But Warden bodies carried the Taint, and had to be burned to prevent it’s spread. With Leliana presiding, arrangements had been able to be made: his ashes wouldn’t be placed in one of the ceramic urns one of the faithful would have received, but gathered in an oak box and released to the Dalish. They’d sent word with Irothal down south, so that Ashalle could come to collect Theron’s remains, and the belongings they would bury with the ashes in poor imitation of the proper rites.

Zevran would have carried them south himself and presented Theron’s ashes to Sabrae - but there were rules, rules he was bound by as an Andrastean and rules Leliana could not bend for him.

He and Theron had been merely betrothed, never married. He could not receive Theron’s ashes. He hadn’t been allowed to sit vigil in the laying-out room with Theron’s body the night before. He wouldn’t be allowed guaranteed privacy in the side chapel for Andraste after the fire burned itself out, so that he could light the candles and beg the Prophet to defend Theron’s mortal flaws and faults to Her husband as still deserving of a place in His presence, just in case the Dalish were wrong.

To the Chantry, what they’d had was nothing. Their betrothal was nothing. Their love was nothing. He was nothing, next to Theron. What he wanted didn’t matter, what he _needed_ didn’t matter, _he_ didn’t matter. He was alone and he had nothing and he was nothing and no one cared-

A man in Warden armor passed between him and the unlit pyre. Alistair? No, Alistair wouldn’t draw his sword on-

Justice sank his sword into the false Leliana’s chest. Her Chantry robes darkened, shrank; her body curled in on itself. The hooded, hunched form of a despair demon screeched on Justice’s blade and the torch fell onto the prepped wood of the pyre and Zevran reached for Theron’s body, even knowing now that it wasn’t real.

He banished the crematorium, but his own fears fought him and the best he could do was make everything shiver into a late spring day in south Ferelden, on the edge of the Brecilian with Hallarenis’haminathe in the distance. Theron lay on the ground now, in readiness for a burial.

Zevran shut his eyes against the sight and trembled. He heard the clink of moving armor and opened his eyes to Theron’s sightless ones turned on him as he started to roll onto his side, the sound of armor covering those of a stiff, creaking corpse.

Justice’s sword came down through Theron’s throat and pinned the spindly, thrashing fear demon to the unreal dirt. It tore itself to pieces trying to escape, and evaporated.

“This will not come to pass,” Justice said, pulling his sword from the ground. “He will not die. Anders has come and healed his wounds. There is more to be done, but he will wake.”

Anders. Anders had come in time. Theron was _safe._

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Wake,” Justice told him. “Go.”

Zevran concentrated and forced himself out of the Fade, waking to Alistair reaching for him.

“Nice timing. Anders got here, he’s going to wake Theron up, see how he’s doing.”

* * *

His head hurt, and his breath wasn’t coming easily. But it was warm, and he could feel magic against his skin. Keeper Marethari’s aravel, then. He must have-

What had he been doing? He couldn’t remember.

Theron realized that he couldn’t hear the clan moving around outside the aravel. He couldn’t smell the forest, or the halla, and the fire was too close. Wood creaked, but it sounded wrong. He was warm but the blankets weren’t right, thin and a fabric he didn’t know, with no furs.

He struggled to open his eyes and find out where he was, and who was healing him. Maybe he’d gone too far or the forest had shifted, and he’d been found by a different clan.

His vision focused. The person healing him wasn’t Dalish. For a moment, his mind wouldn’t register this, wouldn’t accept it; but then he couldn’t deny it any longer. He wasn’t in the Brecilian, he was in a building, and there was a human mage using magic on him.

Theron punched the human right in the face. He shouted, head snapping back, and Theron pushed past him off the bed. He stumbled when his feet hit the floor, almost overcome with dizziness and nausea, but he had to get _out._ He had to get back to-

There was a window in the wall he was facing. It looked out over a wall, and beyond that a city, sloping down towards - Creators that was a lot of water was that the _ocean?_ Movement in the corner of his eye stopped him a moment and he glanced over, looking for the new threat but it was just more windows, much bigger, with a faint reflection of himself in them.

They’d taken his _clothes_ what was he _wearing_ these weren’t Dalish-

There were other voices, there were more humans than the one mage, he had to defend himself- there, by the wall, a little table. He lunged and grabbed the knife lying there and turned to face the room.

 _Three_ humans, the mage he’d punched and a woman and another man, the mage was holding his broken, bloody face and the woman reached over the bed, hand extended, and _she_ was a mage too and the man didn’t react to any of the magic.

“ _Hey, hey, calm down._ ”

He didn’t know this language he _didn’t-_

“ _You’re safe now,_ Theron, _it’s okay-_ ”

The humans knew his name who had told them!

_“Anders, what’s wrong with him?”_

_“Sometimes when you hit your head hard enough, you wake up and don’t recognize anything or understand what’s going on. I didn’t think-”_

Theron didn’t know what the mage was saying but he spotted an elf behind the human man, and saw the way his expression went terrified.

 _‘Scared elf’_ and _‘human mages’_ and _‘city’_ and _‘ocean’_ and _‘can’t remember’_ came together in his head and that meant one thing and one thing only, didn’t it, because everyone knew humans locked their mages up everywhere but Tevinter.

“ _-just needs some rest and more healing, Zevran, I promise he’ll be fine-_ ”

He’d been captured and they were trying to use magic make him forget being Dalish so he wouldn’t try to escape, so he’d be a _good slave._ He’d never see the Brecilian again, or his clan. He couldn’t say goodbye to Merrill or Tamlen or Ashalle or _anyone._ They’d- they’d just have to believe that he’d done this, that he’d made the right choice and done his duty and protected his honor, and theirs.

“Never again will we submit.”

* * *

Rinna.

Rinna- Rinna and Theron-

His knife. If he hadn’t left it out on the table- if he hadn’t listened to Taliesin-

If he hadn’t just stood there but _said something._

The slash of steel across a throat, the gush of blood, the fall of bodies on the floor, it was all familiar. The sounds echoed back and forth across the years, the sights reflecting, the smell of blood pervading.

He had stood here before, or he would again. He had seen this before, and he would again, because- because he- he-

* * *

The sight of Theron slashing his own throat open clear through the windpipe was going to haunt Alistair’s nightmares for weeks, if not forever. So would the look on Zevran’s face when he saw Theron using one of his knives to do it, and the awful, awful sound he’d made as blood gushed out of Theron’s neck.

Irothal was resting in the next room, and Alistair kept his presence of mind long enough to duck in and shake him out of his drowse. Anders had gotten hands on Theron almost immediately, and that would only improve his chances but they needed all the magic they could bring to bear.

The sight of Theron in blood on the floor twice in three days was too much. He pulled Zevran out of the room, deposited him with Tanis because _someone_ had to look after him, and went to the Grand Chantry. It was a short walk to the estate, and just long enough that he worked off the edge of the feeling, the irrational guilt and the sheer terror. He passed Andraste’s birth stone, his stride and height and breadth cutting a path through the perpetual gathering of pilgrims, and shoved through the doors. The Chantry was mostly empty and momentum took him to the front of the sanctuary to the foot of the great statue of Andraste-as-Bride, an Alamarri woman singing atop a mountain. The high windows and recessed mirrors and lanterns bathed everything in light, the Maker’s Glory, and he dropped into the front pew and sat with his head in his hands.

 _We were in the presence of Your ashes,_ he thought at the statue. _Theron passed Your tests of faith and worth, even though he doesn’t revere you or worship the Maker. Does that mean nothing? Do his gods **really** weigh that much against him? **Zevran** was there too, and me. Does it not matter that we love him? He can’t die! He can’t!_

“Alistair?”

He raised his head at the question, and the light touch on his bowed shoulders.

“Hey.”

“You look _awful,_ ” Leliana said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by, I _did_ hear, but I also heard you weren’t receiving visitors and I- I have had my own troubles. How is he doing?”

What a question.

“I’ve learned a lot about the Dalish from him,” Alistair said. “To get your _vallas’lin,_ your face tattoos, to become an adult, you have to swear this thing. The Oath of the Dales. The last bit is _‘and never again shall we submit’_ \- there’s a whole bunch of theology and philosophy tied up in that but the _simplest_ thing is that if you get caught by humans and can’t escape, you commit suicide instead. Anders, the Warden healer we called, he woke Theron up. Turns out when someone hits their head that hard sometimes they have trouble with their memory. He woke up and he didn’t recognize any of us and- I watched him _slit his own throat_ not even _ten minutes ago,_ Leliana!”

“No! No, he _wouldn’t!_ ”

“He would - he _did!_ It’s a Dalish thing, Leliana, and he’s always taken that so seriously-”

How long had they been in Hallarenis’haminathe this last winter? A month and half? That and more he’d been worried about Theron’s weight of cultural guilt over Kirkwall. He’d let himself be reassured by Theron’s promises that he wouldn’t kill himself for it; and now it had come and fucking _blindsided_ them-

“Is he…?”

“I don’t know!” Alistair said, and realized he was crying. “I left! I got someone else to watch Zevran and I left because- I don’t want to know!”

Leliana sat down next to him on the pew, holding his hands.

“You have been watching Zevran?”

“He’s a _wreck._ He needs people there, with him. I can’t - I was being that person but I can’t right now.”

“He is taking it so badly?”

What sort of a question was _that?_

“Of _course_ he’s taking it this badly!” It was _Theron_ and _Zevran._ “I’m surprised he’s not taking it _worse!_ ”

“He always seemed…” Leliana trailed off. “Superficial.”

What was _that_ supposed to mean?

“He was always speaking of his conquests, you know? The people he had killed and the people he had bedded. And making _comments_ about everyone. Even Oghren! I did hear him talking sometimes too, and you know he enjoys killing people? And when Theron was giving gifts he just wanted gold and silver. Killing and sex and money-”

“ _Flames and ashes,_ Leliana!”

That wasn’t him at _all!_ That was- what _was_ that!

“If _that’s_ all he is, then what was him and Morrigan cutting through Fort Drakon to rescue us? What was-”

No, wait, he couldn’t tell Leliana about Morrigan and death against an Archdemon.

“-me and him spending a whole winter in Hallarenis’haminathe and trooping all over Ferelden to-”

She hadn’t been there for that, he realized, and clarity hit. Leliana hadn’t been there for _any_ of it. She hadn’t even been in that back alley when Taliesin had come for Zevran.

“ _You’ve_ never seen them together,” Alistair said. “Not really. Not _together_ together. That’s _not_ who he is, Leliana, not at all. He’s- the Crows put him through a bunch of shit, okay, and I don’t know most of it but I know that when the Blight ended he was only _just_ starting to break out of some of it. They love each other more than anything I’ve ever seen. Zevran would break himself in ways I don’t understand and can’t even imagine to keep Theron safe, and I’ve _seen_ what Theron will do because he loves him. He tore himself apart all last winter because he was trying to respect Zevran’s autonomy when he went to Antiva, and the only time I’ve ever seen him be as violent as he was against the Crows in Antiva City was those Tevene slavers in the Alienage-”

“You were in Antiva this winter?” Leliana interrupted him.

“More like a couple weeks ago, really. They had Zevran. We - Theron and me, and Oghren and Morrigan - we had to get him back.”

She sat back in the pew and let out a heavy breath.

“What?”

“Suddenly the stories I hear make sense,” she said. “A vicious Dalish slaughtering Crows with the strength of an abomination, and his witch-wife who turns into a wolf - or the Dalish turns into a wolf, or the wolf is a demon, or - oh, there are many variations. But always, the Dalish, the witch, and the wolf.”

“That’d be Theron, Morrigan, and Fen, then,” Alistair said. “Nice to know Oghren and I weren’t exciting enough to be noticed. Morrigan blew up the door of the fortress the Wardens of Antiva live in, did you hear about that?”

“No, only the disarray of the Crows. It has…”

“It’s what?”

“I should not burden you with my own troubles.”

“No, please do,” Alistair said, leaning back in the pew as well, and running his hands down his face, wiping the remnants of tears away. “I could use the distraction.”

“I have been in Kirkwall with the Right Hand, attempting to handle the situation,” Leliana told him. “I was there when we heard the news that the Grand Cleric of Antiva was calling for a break from the Divine, because the Maker had moved in the Circle and cured the Tranquil.”

“Zevran knows something about that, I think,” Alistair said, recalling a mention of the Grand Cleric in that inn in Rialto.

Leliana muttered something that was probably: _“Of course he does,”_ before continuing.

“The Divine sent word for us to investigate that, as well. Cassandra and I, we sent a contingent of Templars and some Seekers to Antiva City. I came here to Denerim afterward, so that I would be a bit closer for contact. The day after court opening I received word that the Knight-Captain in charge of the contingent had decided to retreat to hospitality of the Circle at Dairsmuid in Rivain, because of the news in Bastion of the anarchy of the falling Crows. Two days ago I had word from Dairsmuid, and Rivain. The Templars and Seekers we sent to see the Tranquil, they- they Annulled the Circle at Dairsmuid! They didn’t even send for _permission,_ or _advice,_ or- I could have _understood_ if it had been like Kinloch during the Blight, and there were blood mages and apostates plaguing them! But there _weren’t,_ the Circle at Dairsmuid was just a _school,_ and they were teaching their women mages to be Seers, just like Rivain always has, and- yesterday, a group of Sisters arrived on the docks and came to see me. They are all from Rivain. They’re afraid they’re the only ones who have survived, they said, because Rivain has risen up and are tearing down the Chantries and dousing the sacred fires and throwing the relics and statues into the sea in revenge for the Circle! They are drowning the Sisters and Mothers! The whole _country_ has turned from the Maker and it is _my fault!_ ”

“You didn’t _tell_ them to kill anyone,” Alistair told her.

“But they were the Templars and Seekers _I sent._ I was working with them! In Kirkwall! I should have known the sort of people I was sending!”

“Look- Leliana. I hated being a Templar. I _hated_ it. If the choice had been between becoming King and going back to the Templars, I’d be King of Ferelden right now. I don’t know what I would have done if Duncan had come and taken me into the Wardens, but I’ve met other people who are in jobs they hate. I’d either be taking it out on the mages if I was stationed in a Circle or being nasty to some poor villagers somewhere. The people who _enjoy_ their job? Who _like_ being Templars or Seekers? It’s not a job you can like if you don’t really, _really **believe.**_ I’d imagine the people who would want to help out the faithful after something like Kirkwall would be those sorts of people. Those are the people who’d see a Circle working differently than they were used to and decide it had to be mind control or demons or something.”

“And _I_ am the Left Hand of the Divine! I should _know_ better!”

“Look,” Alistair said. “If Diarsmuid is your fault, then Kirkwall is mine.”

“That’s not a good metaphor. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not a metaphor,” Alistair said. “We were in Kirkwall. Theron and I and some others went to get Delilah Howe, because we found out she was one of the refugees there. Her brother Nathaniel’s Theron’s second-in-command, his Constable. We went, there were a lot of other problems we got caught up in, and it was- do you know about what the First Enchanter was up to?”

Leliana nodded.

“Blood magic.”

“Well. We were the ones that found the proof. Or _I_ did, and the group I was leading at the time. One of our Warden mages was recruited from Jainen, but she’d lived in the Circle at Kirkwall for almost all of her life before we got her. She couldn’t believe it, and when she sort of did, she told me I couldn’t tell anyone, because the Knight-Commander would use it as an excuse to kill everyone, and not just take out the First Enchanter. I didn’t listen to her, because _the First Enchanter was a blood mage._ I gave the evidence to Grand Cleric Elthina before we left. And then we heard about Kirkwall.”

He remembered when Velanna, Fenris, and Ser Tabris had ridden in and brought them the news. He’d hidden his reaction to it, because Theron needed him steady and supporting, but- he still hadn’t said anything. Theron had been with Zevran and Ser Tabris when he’d been the one to lead the group saving Leandra Amell.

Theron didn’t _know_ that he’d been involved in any of this. And Alistair knew his opinions on Circles and Templars and the Rite of Annulment. His only justification had been _‘because blood magic is bad’_ , and that didn’t hold up so well when less than a week later they’d both sat down at a table and talked through the decision to turn to blood magic themselves.

So he hadn’t talked about this. He’d barely thought about it, because Theron had needed him and then they’d had Zevran back and then Theron had run off and then they’d been coming to Denerim. But it was always easier to think about one hurt when you were trying to avoid another one.

“It’s my fault the city collapsed,” he said. “It’s my fault all those mages are dead, and Templars too. If I’d listened to people who knew the city and the situation at the Circle a lot better than I did, then we wouldn’t be here.”

“You were just doing what you thought was right,” Leliana said quietly.

“So were you,” Alistair said. “The Divine probably thought sending people to investigate was the right thing to do, too. I bet those Templars and Seekers thought they were doing the right thing. I _know_ that us going to save Zevran and tearing through the Crow Talons that he hadn’t already managed to kill was a good thing. They were scum and deserved worse deaths than they got, mostly. But it still got us all here.”

He sighed.

“Sometimes there are bad consequences to good things,” he said. “I’m learning that, now. I don’t like it. The Blight was easier.”

* * *

“Your son needs you,” were bittersweet words, a miracle because they meant Satheraan and a curse because they meant he was hurting.

Damien took her to the room she and Tanis were sharing. Satheraan was sitting on the bed, staring vacantly at nothing. Tanis was kneeling in front of him, and had obviously been trying to comfort him. She looked up when they walked in, and stood to come speak quietly with her.

“He keeps insisting the Arl is going to die,” Tanis told her, once she’d explained what had happened. “But he’s _not._ The healers have him. It was a bad wound but magic can do so much-”

“And sometimes it’s easier to think people are dead, Tanis,” Nehna said.

“This isn’t you and Satheraan. The Arl is just down the hall, and the healers are still in with him. If he hasn’t died yet-”

“He had hope before,” Nehna cut her off. “He was supposed to be fine, or mostly, when we woke up. Now he is isn’t. What if he _doesn’t_ heal from this?”

“He has to!”

“That’s not how this works and you know it. Bad things happen. People are killed. People hurt. Grief is easier than hope.”

“He’s not grieving,” Tanis said.

Nehna looked back at her son.

“Yes he is.”

She made Tanis and Damien leave, and closed the door.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“He’s dying.”

“I heard.”

“I was there,” he said. “I saw. It was just like Rinna. I lose everyone.”

“You have me, Satheraan.”

“I lost you, too.”

“Yes,” Nehna agreed. The pain of it shuddered out with her breath. “You did. I’m sorry.”

“It was not your fault.”

She wanted to say again: _‘I should have come’_ , but this was about his pain, not hers. It was about having no one else, and trying to be a good mother, for once.

“What do you need from me?”

“I do not-”

His hands tightened. Nehna worked one of his fists apart, and held his hand between hers.

“I don’t know what the Dalish say, _Mamae,_ ” Satheraan told her. “He is a Warden. They have to burn him. In the Chantry. He would hate it. I should give him what he’d want. But I don’t know the prayers or the songs.”

“I know some, and I can ask Irothal if he knows others. We can go down to where he put the statues up, and say them.”

Her son was silent for a span of moments, and then his expression broke.

“I can’t,” he said. “I _can’t-_ ”

“Yes you can,” Nehna told him. “You can survive this. You can come to Mont-de-glace with me, and bring your children-”

“The children,” he said abruptly. “I haven’t been speaking to the children. Are they all right? There was a Crow, are they scared?”

Nehna was about to tell him that yes, they were all right, but then realized that she hadn’t seen them in days.

* * *

It was a simple problem.

There had been a Crow in the estate.

Why would a Crow be in Ferelden, in Denerim, and attack someone?

Because another someone had hired them to.

Who hired Crows?

Antivans hired Crows.

What Antivan would hire a Crow to attack someone in the estate?

Prince Estefan hated _Maestra_ Revasina. But he  was too good to be killed by just anyone, so either the Crow’s prowess had been overestimated or _Maestra_ Revasina had never been the target. It was the Arl who had gotten hurt, after all, and when you wanted to hurt someone but not _hurt_ them, you went after what they cared about.

So Tiar and Diego were on the roof of an abandoned building on the other side of the palace district from the Arl’s estate, watching the building for someone that matched Messere Daganiri’s extremely simple description - an elf of dark hair, dark eyes, and middling-brown skin, with Crow facial tattoos. Could be almost any Crow, but even with tattoos covered up, the coloring combination would be distinctive this far south.

They’d been watching for as long as they could be awake since Diego had been dismissed from helping the mages. It had been a couple days now, but they could be missing something or the Crow was waiting for the uproar about the Arl to die down. Probably the second one. This wasn’t Antiva.

They had seen a lot of people, mostly the nobility and servants, coming and going. The Queen had put Prince Estefan in the same building as her other guests, and that made for a lot of traffic. This morning had been particularly busy.

“Tiar!” Diego said, and poked her. “It’s _Maestra_ Salvail!”

Tiar hadn’t seen him as much as Diego had, but the face was familiar enough - and  _Maestra_ Revasina had been right, covering your tattoos with cosmetics _wouldn’t_ fool another Crow, she could tell what he was just by the way he moved.

He was leaving the grounds. _Maestra_ Revasina wasn’t here, and Savail Arainai could be _anywhere_ by the time they went to go get him, but if only she went or only Diego went and the other trailed him, then they’d still have to search, and Fereldan roofs weren’t meant for following people, anyway.

…It was just Salvail Arainai. He’d stayed alive, sure, but everyone knew he was the most quintessential courtesan type, good at seduction and the bed and trash at the rest.

She could take him.

“Go back to the estate and get him,” Tiar ordered Diego, and he fled down the other side of the roof towards the streets. She got off the building more slowly, and ghosted into the street behind Salvail Arainai. She didn’t have crowd cover but he wasn’t expecting anyone to follow him, was he. So long as she drew her knife far enough behind him that he wouldn’t hear it, and stayed out of his line of sight, she’d be able to sneak up.

He was headed for one of the gates, it looked like, through the old city wall and down to the merchant’s quarter. As they got closer and closer Tiar started looking for an opportune moment. There were guards on the gates and the old walls made this area slightly more contained than the rest of the city. If she let him get down to the main city, he could run _anywhere._

There was a sharp corner ahead. He took it, and Tiar started running. The corner would block her approach, and if she was fast enough, she could close the distance between them enough that she could engage him on the cross street.

Three steps away from the corner she had to stop running and take things at a normal pace. She couldn’t attract attention.

Tiar stepped around the corner and bolted sideways as Salvail Arainai slashed at where she’d been.

She’d hadn’t drawn a knife yet. Dodge the second slash, try to draw one, fumble it-

Salvail Arainai kicked at her feet and she tumbled to the ground, rolling in the direction of her momentum and hoping-

Pain lanced through her shoulder and she was open, exposed, on her back. She brought the arm up over her face  to protect from the surely-coming knife. It bit into her leather bracer and skittered off, blocked from sinking into her eyes and further, a killing blow, and cut her open down the face instead. Her legs had come up, she kicked out - one foot connected solidly with Salvail Arainai and his other knife slashed across her stomach, cutting through the leather there to leave a shallow, painful wound.

Tiar forced herself off the ground and into a run as he completed his fall. Crows weren’t supposed to leave loose ends. If she could get back to the estate, to _Maestra_ Revasina, he wouldn’t follow her for fear of him surely, she’d be safe, he’d protect-

Pain again, shooting through her back and side and making her stumble. She reached back to feel the wound- a throwing knife, sunk through leather and into the thick muscle there. She couldn’t run as fast any longer. He was going to catch up. She had to keep going anyway. She kept going.

Another hit, to her spine. Not a blade but a hand, and finger strike against nerves that sent her crashing to the ground, unable to control her legs. She caught herself before she landed face-first and tried to stay on hands and knees, and crawl away from him-

 _Maestra_ Revasina dropped out of the sky in a move she’d seen before, in an alley in Rialto on the day they’d met. On that day he’d sunk his knives into the body of a Crow who’d put hands on Diego and crushed her beneath him; today it was Salvail Arainai. The Crow in Rialto had died from it. Surely Salvail Arainai had too, and-

“Didn’t you want to question him?”

“I have no interest in what he may have had to say,” _Maestra_ Revasina told her, and checked her wounds with gentle hands. He didn’t touch her often. It was good. Touching meant hurting, but he’d never hurt her unless she was trying to hurt him first and he always stopped touching if she snapped or pushed or even just looked unhappy. It was good. She liked him touching her. “Theron is hurt, you are hurt, and _he_ was responsible.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He was a courtesan and he wasn’t you, I thought I could-”

He stroked her hair.

“You are not very badly hurt, hm?” he said. “I was scared, yes, but I am not angry at you, my dear.”

She leaned into his hand. It was nice.

“He hurt you. I wanted you to get him. He was going to leave-”

“Shhh, _isagadi_ ,” he said, and picked her up, careful to support her back so the throwing knife wouldn’t tear her muscles more. “You did well, looking and sending for help. Thank you.”

This was good.

* * *

Her afternoon was not exactly free - royalty’s time was never exactly free - but she was Queen and if she wished to cancel previous engagements, she could. If anyone complained, they were unlikely to continue when they learned where she was going.

An interesting place, the Denerim estate of Amaranthine. Elven doormen, for one, who were very flustered by the sight of her and Erlina and clearly didn’t know how to reconcile the estate’s current _‘no guests’_ policy with her royal status. It was resolved when an officious man in the sash of a noble’s personal servant and very nice clothes, for a servant, came and led them into the house.

“Did you have an incident, Serrah?” Anora asked him, eyeing the healing cut across his face.

“I hit the Crow with a book, Your Royal Highness.”

“A book?”

“Astrella Reinadine’s _Journeys of Denanti_ , Your Royal Highness,” he said. “It was all I had on me at the time, and he was intruding.”

His accent was Orlesian. No mere manservant would face up to a Crow unless extremely loyal, and Anora knew that the Warden-Commander hadn’t had one until recently. A Bard?

“And your name?” she asked; because if he was a Bard, Erlina would be able to find out.

“Damien Daganiri, Your Royal Highness.”

An Orlesian given name but an Antivan surname. Odd, but not entirely uncommon, though mostly in merchants and nobility, not servants.

She couldn’t avoid the thought - was he another Crow? - especially when the manservant led them upstairs and into a room where Zevran was bandaging up a girl with the same facial tattoos as his own, watched by a younger boy on a stool, who startled badly when he saw them and shied away.

Zevran said something to him in Antivan, gentle and reassuring, and the boy only stuck to his side instead of retreating to the corner.

“Apprentices, Zevran?”

“Not mine, if that is the question, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Apprentices once, yes, rescued from the Crows.”

“Your business in Antiva?” she asked.

“Not in its original conception,” he said. “But it has proven to be the most rewarding part.”

Someday she would get him to tell her what his business _had_ been. For now she settled for introductions to the children.

“You have left me a dead body, Zevran,” Anora told him. That was her real business here. “Outside of Arl Bryland’s estate. I hear that Habren fainted.”

“Do you wish me to clean it up and make my apologies, Your Royal Highness?”

“Habren Bryland is in need of a shock,” Anora said, waving him off. “The guards have taken care of the body. I was hoping to learn if you had more information about the origins of this issue.”

“He was Savail Arainai,” he told her. “I knew him in the Crows. Tiar, Diego - would you tell Her Royal Highness where you found him?”

The news that he had been spotted coming out of her estate, and that Zevran’s children had been particularly watching there because they suspected Prince Estefan, was sadly unsurprising. The prince had been her first thought upon hearing the news, as well. The motive was too obvious - which was almost a reason to disbelieve it all, because what sort of prince was _that_ incompetent?

Though things were different in Antiva, when it came to assassins; and Anora was well aware that the reputation of Fereldans abroad was unflattering. Barbarians, they said. Lacking in intelligence and cleverness. Quick to anger and violence. No manners, no sense of _society_ or refinement. He _could_ have thought it would be tolerated, or that he would get away with it.

“So no _real_ proof,” she concluded.

“Unfortunately not, Your Royal Highness. Simply suspicion. Well-founded, I believe. But suspicion.”

“This will require delicate politics. I do not like the idea that _anyone_ could believe that they can have our nobility killed.”

It set a terrible precedent and it reflected badly upon the whole country, not to mention the fact that it was a simple matter of disrespect and national feeling. She’d seen Fergus and Prince Baldewin one after the other yesterday. The difference between the Teyrn’s concern about the Warden-Commander and the Ander’s callous remark about what becoming involved in politics brought down upon those who were not supposed to mettle had been stark, and very unflattering for the prince.

She might not _like_ the Warden-Commander very much, and prefer to think of him in the terms of his usefulness, but that did not mean that she would allow others to disrespect him so blatantly without retribution. At least not unless they had a warranted reason.

Prince Baldewin would be returning to the Anderfels when she chose her husband.

“But stay out of it,” Anora told Zevran. “If it _was_ the prince, your presence will not help.”

“As you say, Your Royal Highness.”

“How is your fiancé?”

She had never seen him worried, before. Or hurting. He had always courteous, in the true sense of the word, when she saw him in court or in private. Charming, mannerly, a bit flirtatious and always complimentary without being flattering.

“I would see him,” she said. She had a responsibility to her nobility, no matter how she might dislike them.

“I will- I will see what Anders says.”

When she saw him, it was…

She remembered him, the day of the Battle of Denerim. She remembered hoping that the darkspawn horde would be the end of him, or the Archdemon Urthemiel if the darkspawn weren’t enough to finish him off. Her father’s death - execution, _murder_ \- had been a fresh wound, then.

She remembered the great light off the top of Fort Drakon, herself looking up in the midst of her army as the darkspawn screamed and fled. That had been the end of him, surely, she’d thought.

But he’d walked down off that tower, out of the fort, as though it had been nothing. A Blight, an Archdemon - nothing more than a simple roadside skirmish. He’d emerged bloody and singed, but largely unhurt. A Hero, unequivocally, as much as Calenhad or Dane or any of the Alamarri of legend and pagan myth.

Heroes were not laid low by an assassin who couldn’t even finish the job. Looking at him now, he was… just a man. Not the Arl of Amaranthine, not the Warden-Commander, not a one of his titles; not lying there in the bed with bandages thick around his neck, a broad red-brown line marking where the wound that had surely almost killed him had been cut into his flesh.

 _This is the man who killed Howe to free you,_ a voice she didn’t like to listen to when it came to Theron Mahariel Sabrae said. _This is the man who fought Cauthrien and her men despite being so outnumbered. He was saving refugees and travelers and clearing roads and dispensing charity when you were still trying to convince yourself that your father was doing the right thing. He disagreed with Eamon every step of the way about replacing you with Alistair. He returned Maric’s sword to be kept with his relics, and brought you Cailan’s armor and ashes. He gave him a pyre with a Sister’s prayers when he could have left Ostagar to the darkspawn and never gone back, and all that would be lost._

 _He killed my father!_ she reminded herself angrily.

 _And how many of the other nobles were happy to see him go?_ the voice asked, cold and uncaring. _For no better reason than because they’d always thought of him as a Freeman who should have been content with a knightship or lordship for what he did for Maric and Rowan, and not given the Teyrnir. At least **this** man wanted him dead for his misdeeds and not for his heroism. _

But her father was still dead, his name still smeared.

 _And whose fault is his reputation but his?_ the voice asked. _He took Rendon Howe as his right hand, the one man everyone could agree they hated. And he nearly robbed you of your throne, far more effectively than Eamon ever has._

 _Her father_ was _dead._ He could have been alive right now. He could have been a Warden right now. The older one, the one who had died, he’d offered that.

But would he have wanted that? Would he have accepted? From farmer’s son to war hero to Teyrn to national disgrace to Warden? To be subordinate to the Wardens he’d had branded traitors and forced to see his beloved country continue on without him? Or to be sent away from Ferelden to the Anderfels, or the Free Marches, or _Orlais?_

Her father was dead.

So was Connor Guerrin. So was Rendon Howe. Amaranthine had burned. She had a report from her ambassador in Antiva City full of histrionic language about the Crows he’d killed in Antiva. When the Warden-Commander of Ferelden decided that someone was going to die, they died.

_He left Cailan to die. You wouldn’t be scraping around the corners of Thedas for younger sons of malleable breeding if he hadn’t._

And the army might have been destroyed. Ferelden might have fallen to the Blight.

_Or Cailan might have been alive, and more of the Wardens, and help could have been called. If not from Orlais, then from the Free Marches, or Nevarra. There were options._

As Queen of Ferelden, she’d been obligated to honor the Warden who’d become Hero, even though she’d hated him as Anora Mac Tir.

As Anora Mac Tir, he would always be the man who’d killed her father. But as Queen of Ferelden, he was a valuable political and economic ally, and one of her nobles, and she had the obligation to defend him even as he’d defended her.

“Is there anything you need?” she asked, still looking down at the unconscious man in the bed.

“Anders is a very good healer,” Zevran said. “He could not have better. Nothing else will help him, except perhaps prayers-”

She put a hand on his shoulder.

“Zevran, I was not asking about your fiancé.”

He stared at her a moment, reorienting.

“Oh,” he said. “I- I am not - thank you, Your Royal Highness, but no, I do not think there is anything you could provide me that would help. Unless you are hiding away the rest of the Urn of Sacred Ashes somewhere, so that he might make an immediate and full recovery?”

“Is he that bad?”

“I love him dearly,” Zevran told her. “For me, it makes no difference.”

“I will ask the Grand Cleric to include him in the service prayers,” Anora said. “And you both have mine.”

“You are very kind, Your Royal Highness.”

“I understand if you - both of you, and I _suppose_ Captain Mac Maric as well- feel yourselves unable to attend the court ball in three days’ time.”

“That is generous of you, Your Royal Highness. The Landsmeet to vote on the candidates for the titles is in five days’ time, and I hope that  _someone_ will be in attendance at the ball so that Theron may make an informed decision.”

“He will be well again by that time?”

“That is the hope,” he said. “If not well enough to fight or attend the ball, then to travel _slowly_ to the palace and sit in place for the span of a day’s meeting for the voting. It is five days from now and we have a Spirit Healer. If Anders cannot heal him in that time, then we have far more pressing concerns than his vote.”

An unfortunate truth that, Maker willing, would not come to pass.

“Send word if he gets worse,” Anora told him. “Or better. I could use _good_ news from an out-of-breath runner, for once.”

Zevran managed to give her a brief smile, and promised that he would.

“Erlina,” she said, once the doors of the estate had closed behind them. “I want a plan to get Prince Estefan out of the country before the ball. By tomorrow before dinner, if you can. I will even accept simply telling him to leave, if that is the most expedient.”

It would be problematic. Antiva was not a country to offend if one could help it. But she had her people, and her friends, and her allies; and no foreign prince was going to take them from her.


	8. Chapter 8

It was dark and his throat hurt.

He couldn’t breathe right.

* * *

There was a Dalish he didn’t know trying to make him drink. Water? Tisane? It was warm.

“What clan-”

Creators his neck hurt. The muscles pulled and burned and his voice was hoarse and scratchy even though his throat felt wet and clogged.

“I am of Clan Nu’nin, Hahren.”

That wasn’t near Sabrae. He was trying to remember _where_ they were, exactly, but never quite got that far.

* * *

There was a Crafter sitting on a chair next to him, whittling.

“Don’t try to talk,” she told him, shaving off a curl of wood. It was… a sparrow? For Sylaise. The body was mostly there, and the wings outstretched for balance.

He turned his head more and it _hurt._ There were finished figures on the table. A dragon, an owl. Mythal, Falon’din. A raven, a hare. Dirthamen, Andruil. A prayer for healing, a prayer for protection, a prayer for answers found.

“You still need to heal. Go back to sleep.”

* * *

There was a room and wood and Alistair was here.

“Redcliffe?”

“Nope,” he said. “Denerim.”

But they’d never been to Denerim.

“…but we haven’t made it to Denerim yet?”

“That was a long time ago, Theron.”

No it wasn’t. They’d just been - there was a lake? A human, lots of humans, in armor. Dead people. The tower-

“Alistair,” he said, trying to organize his thoughts. It was hard. “There are demons.”

“Uh- somewhere, yeah. Not here though.”

“You’re dreaming. This is the Fade-”

“Woah, hey, no! Don’t try to get up, you’ve hurt your-”

* * *

“Justice?”

This was his office. The registry of his Wardens was open on his desk, and he was in the midst of entering a new name.

“Yes,” the Warden in front of him said. He had his helmet off, tucked beneath one arm and his hip, shield across his back and sword at his side. “Justice Kristoffsen.”

Very Andrastean they were, up in the Anderfels. He’d heard they named their children after virtues there.

“It’s good to have you, Warden Kristoffsen. How much experience do you have?”

“I fought for you in Amaranthine, Commander. I have been with Anders since he fled. I have guarded your husband’s dreams, and helped Anders in healing you. You must wake. They are scared for you.”

* * *

It was dark and the stairs were harder to handle than they should have been. He slipped halfway down and banged his spine and tailbone painfully as he slid a few steps, until he caught himself on the handrail.

He was dizzy, and tired. Opening doors and walking down the hallways had been more work than it should have been. He’d just rest here a moment…

* * *

Fen was in his bed. He rolled over to hug him, warm and soft, and fell back asleep.

* * *

The Arl of Amaranthine’s - Theron’s estate hadn’t been taking guests for most of the week, but the day before yesterday the Queen had gone by, and the Crow had been killed. Lady Amell the elder had been out and about since as well, so perhaps things had changed?

On the principle that it couldn’t hurt to go see, Fergus took a morning walk to Theron’s. The doormen - elves, there were so many elves employed here, and he was still getting used to that - seemed uncertain about whether or not he was allowed to enter, but when he made it clear that he was there to see Bethany Amell and not any of the _‘official’_ household, they let him in. He was shown to one of the withdrawing rooms, and Bethany came down to see him.

It was unfair how beautiful she could be in a plain dress, a simple dark dusty blue with no decoration but the belt around her waist and the sleeves tied up with broad ribbons, her hair pulled up behind an old red kerchief.

“I’m sorry, I’m not very put together,” she said. “I’ve been helping, with the Arl, and I was making brews, chamomile and embrium and those sorts of things-”

“You are as lovely as ever, Lady Bethany. Do the flowers wilt when they realize they can never compare, or do they exult at being torn and rendered by such a bewitching beauty?”

“Teyrn Fergus that was _terrible._ ”

“Yes it was,” he said. “But you’re smiling, and I think you need that.”

Her smile softened.

“I did,” she said. “Thank you. And for coming. I’ve… been wanting to see you, but it’s not a very good time.”

“I thought it wouldn’t be,” Fergus said. “How is he doing?”

“He got much worse two days ago, before the Queen arrived,” Bethany told him. “But yesterday he was in and out, awake sometimes and sometimes not. The Wardens found him asleep on the stairs early this morning. Captain Mac Maric found him, it woke up the whole house. We think he woke up in the night and decided to go get food. He’s back asleep now, but Anders - Warden Anders, their healer, he thinks the Arl will be recovered enough to stay properly conscious by this afternoon.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Will he be at the court ball tomorrow?”

She shook her head.

“I heard the Queen gave permission for them not to attend.”

Well, _‘them’_ wasn’t _‘us’_ , which was a relief. For a moment he’d thought he’d been about to get his legs cut out from under him before he could begin.

“I realize this isn’t an opportune time,” Fergus said. “And that it’s possibly short notice - _too_ short notice, but - Lady Bethany, would you be my companion tomorrow and attend the ball with me?”

She stared at him a moment, lips just parted in surprise.

“ _With_ you?” she asked. “As - _‘walking in’_ with you?”

“Ah, yes. I- well, as you know I’m an eligible bachelor and _everyone_ is going to be there, except the Arl and Messere Revasina I suppose, and I don’t want anyone getting any ideas, and-”

He was rambling, babbling. He hadn’t done this in a very long time, he should stop.

“…You want them to think that you like- that you want me?” she asked.

Fergus almost said _‘yes, of course, I want you’_ , before he realized what he was thinking and _refused_ to let himself. He _did,_ oh Maker he did want her. He wanted- she was kind and bright and beautiful and he liked her company and could see how much _she_ wanted this life, a noble life.

And she could be his noble wife.

He was in no way prepared but Fergus had the impulse to ask, right here, right now. He was going to, he realized that, he was absolutely going to ask her to marry him. He had few other options, none of which he particularly cared to consider, and he didn’t _love_ her exactly, not like Oriana, but he could. He’d gotten to know his first wife over a full two seasons of her family at port and he didn’t have that kind of time now, but he _could_ love Bethany. And if he didn’t, and if she didn’t- they could be friends. They already were friends. It would be a good arrangement.

He just had to wait - wait until after the ball tomorrow, and the Landsmeet two days after and the handing-out of bannorns the day after that. Bethany’s mother was angling for a bannorn. It was one thing marrying foreign nobility, but if the Amells received a bannorn, then he’d be marrying within the country. It required different things, contracts and agreements and such.

He just had to wait.

He _hated_ the thought of waiting.

“You are the best company I could imagine having,” he told her. “Will you accompany me?”

“I most certainly will, Teyrn Fergus.”

“Good. Good! Then I’ll- I’ll come pick you up. Tomorrow.”

* * *

Anders came to get him when it was time.

“I think he’ll be okay,” Anders said. “I _think-_ I _hope._ He was fine with Irothal and Nehna yesterday, and he recognized Alistair and remembered Trade and the Blight. And he got up last night and almost made it downstairs. It _shouldn’t_ be a problem.”

Zevran stripped the room of everything sharp anyway. His original goal had been to strip the room of everything dangerous, or able to be used as a weapon, or able to kill someone - but that was just about everything, when you put your mind to it.

“Do you think it would help if we tied him to the bedframe or something?” Anders asked, watching him removing things from the room. “Last time, if he’d-”

 _“Don’t you **dare,** ” _Zevran said, sharper and angrier than he’d thought he would. Anders leaned away from him, unconsciously, and he took a breath and explained in a calmer voice. “Even if he woke up himself, he would wake up panicked. If he does not remember-”

He _had_ to remember. He couldn’t let himself imagine anything else. If Theron didn’t remember him- he _would,_ he was borrowing trouble.

“-it will make everything much worse.”

Everything sharp was gone, except for the secret things he kept on his own person. He locked the windows and outside doors, too. A fall from this height wouldn’t kill, not unless engineered properly, but it could break in ways that couldn’t be fixed.

“Very well,” he said.

Anders shooed Fen off the bed. The mabari needed prodding to move, and whined softly once he finally jumped off the bed, leaning into Zevran’s legs for a moment before morosely taking up his usual station under the bed.

A little glow of healing magic around Anders’s fingers, lightly touching Theron’s head, and a soft: “Commander?” had Theron opening his eyes. They were blank, fogged from waking, and Zevran reminded himself to breathe and couldn’t.

Theron blinked a few times, sleepily, and then woke all at once.

“Satheraan-” he said, voice scratchy, and reached for Zevran; and he was on the bed on his knees and Theron’s hands were touching and tracing all over his face and Zevran leaned into them, caught them, held them close. “The Crow, are you all right?”

“I am fine, I am fine, he never touched me-”

“And Damien?”

“A cut, nothing serious, it is healing.”

“Do you remember what happened, Commander?” Anders asked.

“I broadsided him,” Theron said, and Zevran watched his face, resisting touching him further, for now, because he knew very well where seeking reassurance of _alive_ could lead. It had happened often enough before, with Theron and while he’d been in the Crows. “We slipped off the stairs, and-”

He frowned, and shifted uncomfortably.

“It is all right, it is healed,” Zevran told him.

“I’m a Hahren,” Theron muttered. “I’m supposed to _remember-_ ”

“You hit your head hard enough, you’ll forget anything,” Anders said. “Do you remember anything between that and waking up here?”

“…No? Did I wake-”

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Anders said, standing. “Only get if there’s a surprise attack of darkspawn or the Orlesians attack or something.”

“Satheraan?” Theron asked, and Zevran curled up around him, on top of him, his face pressed into Theron’s neck where a half-healed, livid red slash marked where blood and- listen to him breathing, listen to his heart beating. Strong, steady, _alive._

Theron held him, one arm curled around his waist and the other bent against his back, solid and comforting, hand stroking his hair.

“I woke up before, didn’t I?”

“The Crow was five days ago,” Zevran said, and swallowed, trying to wet his throat. “Anders arrived two days ago, and healed you, and tried to wake you up. You were stabbed in the lung, and you smashed your head on the stairs, and when you woke up, you didn’t remember-”

Theron squeezed, gently.

“I’m sorry.”

“I do not know what you were thinking but you didn’t recognize any of us and you picked up a knife and I thought you meant to fight us but you said the last line of the Oath of the Dales and you slit your own throat, Theron, I _watched you-_ ”

“I’m so sorry.”

“If Anders had not- if we had only had Bethany and Irothal, or- you know very well how to- to- it cut right through- you were breathing blood, and it is a good place to kill someone, and-”

Theron pulled him up and kissed him, soft and reassuring. Zevran turned it hard, bearing down in desperation, and Theron had to eventually tug him up and away.

“It reminded you of Rinna,” he said quietly, and Zevran didn’t even need to agree. It wasn’t a question. Theron already knew it had.

“You almost bled to death,” he said instead. “And then you almost drowned on your own blood. And then no one was certain whether you would be able to speak again, or move or support your head, or swallow or breathe at all, or without pain.”

“My throat does still hurt,” Theron admitted, and Zevran pressed close and kissed him, all along the healing wound. Theron squirmed.

“That _tickles,_ ” he complained, and then started coughing, violently.

“Theron!”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, I’m fi-aiih!”

Theron clutched the side of his neck, where the knife had cut through the muscles and into the artery. His breath started coming in little gasps, edged with pain, and his eyes watered.

“Theron-!”

He sought out Zevran’s hand with the one not at his neck and clutched it, clamping down hard.

“Theron-”

He tried to speak, whined in pain, and cut off abruptly, holding very still in a way Zevran knew- that was the stillness of not moving because it hurt too much if you did. He breathed shallowly and his eyes unfocused.   

“Theron- _amora_ ,” Zevran said, biting down on his terror. “Let me see.”

Theron moved his hand, and Zevran gently touched the healing wound. There was tension tight as a bowstring up and down the muscles, threaded across the thin and fragile reconnections Anders had made.

“Try to swallow for me,” he said. Theron was still breathing and it still sounded right, so hopefully, _please,_ the problem was these seizing muscles and not the wound reopening internally.

Theron did, and his next breath was airy and full of pain. Zevran stroked with gentle pressure down the straining muscles and coaxed him into swallowing again, and again, and one more time, _amora,_ just one more, gently nudging the tension away…

“That hurt,” Theron gasped after a minute or two, after the muscles had finally released. “That hurt a _lot-_ ”

Zevran’s fingers came away bloody, and Theron starting wheezing. It was a wet sound.

 _“Healer!”_ Zevran yelled, and put a hand on Theron’s chest when he started struggling upright, helping him flip over. Blood dripped onto the sheets, and then spattered when Theron coughed, a great convulsive thing that he could _hear_ the tear in.

_“Healer!”_

Magic-haloed hands slid into place on Theron’s throat even as he yelled the second time.

“What happened?” Irothal asked.

“We were talking, his neck seized up, all-” Zevran placed his hand on the left side of his own neck, fingertips up behind the ear and the heel of his palm under his jaw. “I- I had him swallow, I put a little pressure on it and it went away but then he started talking again and _this-_ ”

“Go get Anders,” Irothal told him.

“I heard tearing when he coughed, what- did- did I- is this my-”

“Go get _Anders,_ Satheraan Revasina!” Irothal ordered, and Zevran fled, mind spiraling with the horrifying thought that this was _his_ fault, he should have called when the muscles around Theron’s wound had seized up, but he’d just- he’d acted like a _Crow,_ you dealt with injuries by _yourself_ -

Anders cursed and snarled under his breath as he poured more magic into Theron’s reopening throat. Zevran stood frozen, watching the healer’s hands go red under the glow. He’d done this, he’d done this-

 _“Shit!”_ Anders half-screamed, when Theron’s breath hitched like he was retching. There was no vomit, just a sudden gush of blood through the healer’s fingers.

Alistair grabbed him from behind and pulled him out of the room. Zevran only noticed- only started struggling against it- when he managed to get him across the threshold.

“You’re _panicking,_ ” Alistair told him, letting him go, but staying between him and the door to his and Theron’s room. “You need to _calm down. Hey._ ”

Theron was dying it was his fault.

“Is that his?”

Alistair took his hand and Zevran snatched it away, the thought of sticking his bloody fingers in his mouth and sucking the Taint off flashing through his mind.

He’d hurt Theron. He’d made things worse.

“We need to clean that,” Alistair said, and grabbed for his hand again. Zevran curled his fingers in and pressed them possessively against his chest. _“Zevran.”_

He shouldn’t do that. There were better ways to die- no, that was bad, dead was bad, Theron-

_was dying_

“Hit me,” he told Alistair.

_“Excuse me?”_

_“Hit me,”_ he begged. “I- it’s-”

He needed to stop. He needed to stop _thinking,_ if he’d just- this was _his fault_ why wasn’t Alistair yelling, striking out, threatening- Theron had been _fine_ before he’d _put hands on him,_ Alistair shouldn’t be trying to _protect him-_

“I’m not _hitting_ you!”

He shouldn’t stick his fingers in his mouth. Alistair wouldn’t hit him.

So Zevran ran.  

* * *

Nehna only stayed long enough to have news before she took Eirlin and went after her son. She found him on the sheer drop where they’d stopped earlier in their stay, up in the hills overlooking the city, where he’d told her about Rinnala Estefanez.

He was perched right on the edge, huddled up - feet braced against the wall of the drop and hunched over, hugging his knees.

“Satheraan,” she said, standing back so she wouldn’t startle him into losing his balance with an unexpected touch. “Come away. You’ll fall.”

He titled his head so his face was hidden in his arms and his whole body _leaned_ forwards-

_“Satheraan-!”_

He raised his head, unfolded his arms. His fingers clutched the edge of the cliff.

“You’re going to _kill yourself!_ ” she snapped, heart racing.

“It keeps the panic away,” he said, still _leaning._ “Have you never wanted to die, _Mamae,_ with everything you have lived through?”

“No!”

“Not even when you were in pain?” her son asked. “When you tried to numb yourself with brandy?”

He remembered that.

“I didn’t want it to be happening,” Nehna told him. “That’s not the same.”

“No, it is not,” Satheraan agreed. “After Rinnala- the general of Ferelden’s army took out a contract out on the surviving Wardens. I volunteered - no one else wanted the job. Fighting Wardens was suicide, we all knew. But I wanted to die, so-”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

“I say that I am better now. But I have to wonder.”

“Satheraan, get away from that edge.”

“I am not going to push myself off, _Mamae,_ ” he said. It was too calm a statement. “This is a thing Prince Estefan has not realized - I live with Rinna and Tali’s deaths every day. It would hurt less to die, and maybe see them again. But I live.”

“You have the Ar- Theron. You have _Theron,_ Satheraan, come away.”

“I will lose him someday, too. Sooner or later. If it is my fault than the worse punishment would be to live with it. So I will. I _am.”_

“He’s not dead and he’s not dying,” Nehna told him. “The mages are exhausted - they’ve _been_ exhausted since their first day - but they got the bleeding stopped again and bandaged him up. He’s not allowed to move much or speak and he’s to eat nothing but broth until he can swallow a mouthful of vodka without it hurting. The Warden said alcohol is the best way to keep infections out of throat wounds, so they’ve put him to drinking some every hour.”

“At least he cannot become drunk that way.”

“The mages say that he won’t die of this,” she continued. “But it’s going to scar badly, and they don’t know what his voice will be like. That’s what started this- there are very thin muscles in the hard part of your throat, Irothal said, that let you speak. He cut those the first time, and they weakened when the muscles everywhere else tensed and then tore again when he started coughing and took everything else with it. He might not speak again, if they _really_ can’t do anything.”

“He would hate that,” Satheraan said quietly. “He is a Hahren. He _needs_ his voice.”

“Irothal knows,” Nehna told him. “They’re doing everything they can. Come away from the edge, _da’len_.”

He leaned back, and looked at her.

It was a start.

* * *

It had been an exhausting week, and it just kept getting worse, but he still had more to do.

Leontius and Neria first.

“Nate sent off for your records,” he told them, in Leontius’s room, and looked at the man. “Have you told anyone yet?”

Leontius shook his head, mute with terror.

“Andraste’s ashes Leontius if I have to   _make_ you tell someone, I will! It will come off better if _you_ tell them before Kinloch comes back and asks: _‘who?’_ ”

“But- it’s-”

“If you _don’t_ then Nate’s going to write _here_ all officious and concerned and _then,_ when the Commander is better, _he’s_ going to come asking questions and then it _will_ be an issue!” Anders snapped. “If you go tell someone _before_ that, Alistair, or - oh for Hessarian’s sake go tell _Zevran!_ He’s Antivan, I bet _he’s_ heard of it!”

“It’s the _‘Tevinter perversion’_ ,” Leontius said. “The Commander, I’ve _heard,_ he’s Dalish he _hates Tevinter-_ ”

“If you tell someone while I’m here I can get you out if it goes bad,” Anders cut him off. It wasn’t a kind thing to do, but he’d learned in Kirkwall that sometimes you had to be nasty to get people to do things.

“ _Tomorrow,_ Leontius,” he ordered. “Or the day after. No later. If you want me to come with you, I will. But you can’t put this off any longer.”

He left Leontius to be comforted by Neria, and went to see the _other_ mage problem.

“Look, I’m just _saying-_ ”

“I _know,_ Anders,” Bethany said, as she spread her dresses out across her room to pick one for accompanying the Teyrn of Highever to the ball. “Let me have my fun.”

“It won’t _be_ fun when he finds out and his first though it Flemeth and Conochbar. It’s the same _set-up,_ Bethany! A pretty woman mage, a powerful lord of Highever-”

Bethany threw down the dress she’d been considering and glared.

“I _know!_ ” she said. “I _know,_ Anders! I’ve been hiding all my life!”

“Not in Kirkwall you didn-”

“And those records are gone,” she told him. “I watched them burn myself.”

“And if there are copies in Val Royeaux?”

“They’d have to think to look, wouldn’t they?” Bethany countered. “And no one will have a reason to if I’m not married to him.”

“You’re _courting_ him,” Anders reminded her.

“And that’s hardly an engagement.”

“And how’s he going to feel when you blow him off after leading him on?” he challenged. “He’s the _Teyrn of Highever._ He’s got resources, he’s got power.”

“He’s not-” Bethany started to say, and then faltered.

“People in power don’t like being told _‘no’_ ,” Anders said. “Remember Kirkwall? If you need a way to get out, Bethany, I can get you away and hidden somewhere. Come to me if it gets bad, okay? I don’t want you hurt. And Marian would eviscerate me if I _didn’t_ help you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’d be more reassured if you sounded like you believed it,” Anders told her, and went to settle in for his last conversation. Falling asleep on purpose was always harder than when you were exhausted, but quiet and a bed could get him dozing. From there, he just had to… let go.

Justice was there when he finally crossed into the Fade. Of course he was.

“Your verdict?”

“Pushy, pushy,” Anders grumbled. “I don’t like that about you, you know.”

“I am aware. It was a mistake. I did not understand- I _do_ not understand, entirely-”

“I don’t care,” Anders cut him off. “And _bullshit_ you don’t understand! You were a _corpse_ for, what, a _year?_ You _know_ how the mortal world works! You knew what you were doing!”

Justice was silent.

“I don’t like who you were when you were with me,” Anders said. “I don’t like _me_ when you were with me. Having you help me heal isn’t the same-”

But it _was._ Justice had helped him heal plenty of people in Darktown, in Lowtown, more than he’d helped him fight. Healing with him had been so _easy._ They knew the flow of each other’s magic, inside and out, and he’d forgotten what it had felt like, that perfection. He wanted-

“I don’t trust _myself_ around you,” he said firmly. “And I don’t trust _you_ around me. I need a spirit to be a Spirit Healer, but I _won’t have you._ ”

“I tried,” Justice said. “It is wrong, what is done-”

 _“I know,”_ Anders snapped. “ _I’m_ the one who _lived it!_ ”

“We separated and I _tried,_ ” Justice persisted. “I remember Karl.”

He still remembered-

“Don’t- don’t _talk_ about him-”

A handful of moments. An overflow of magic, or some- _something,_ and it hadn’t _lasted-_

“The others do not know where to look. How to look. That they are _needed._ I remember seeing Karl. I remember his shape in the Fade. I know what dreaming mages look like, and that dreaming mages together is a Circle.”

So _what?_ He’d been spying on the Circles? _So?_

“There are no Tranquil in Antiva,” Justice said. “I touched them; I breached the divide and I healed them.”

That was- he’d gotten a note about a wild rumor, just one line in a larger piece, updates about the situation in the Free Marches and rumors that could have some real basis, about fomenting disquiet in the Circles-

“It’s true? That’s- it’s really _true?_ You can cure-?”

Justice nodded.

This was the Fade, and he had to control himself. But if this hadn’t been, he would have given over, sunk to his knees and _wept_ because the Tranquil, if Tranquil could be touched, _healed,_ the Chantry couldn’t use it as a threat any longer. They could only _kill you._

“I did,” Justice said. “But I did, and Templars killed everyone in the Circle at Dairsmuid. The demons flocked, and those who spoke to the seers cried out in anguish. Some twisted in grief, and pushed through the Veil to claw at the murderers of their friends as demons. Those mages did nothing, and they are dead.”

“They _always_ want us dead,” Anders said fiercely. “They would have come up with some reason - that’s not on _you,_ you’ve done more to help us than _they_ ever did!”

“I wish to heal more,” Justice said. “But I am… afraid. Of what the Templars will do to them. I can restore their souls, but they will not be safe.”

“They’re not safe the way they are _now.”_

“So I should heal them only for them to die?”

“If you won’t help them like that then tell other spirits how to do it! What to look for! _Talk_ to the other mages - tell them that they don’t deserve what’s happening, remind them this isn’t what they should be like! Tell the children someone cares about them, tell the Enchanters they’re worth more, they deserve better, they should _fight -_ Maker’s breath go haunt the _Grand Enchanter!_ The _Divine!_ The _Knight-General!_ The _Lord Seeker!_ But don’t just _walk away!_ ”

“I stood with the people of Blackmarsh since before any mortal who still lives was born,” Justice said. “This is my cause. I will not abandon it.”

“Good,” Anders said. “ _Good._ Now get out there and _do_ something, and stay away from _me!_ ”

“You need a spirit.”

Was he _listening?_

“And I _said_ that I _won’t have you!_ ”

“I have a friend,” Justice said. “I think you may be well suited.”

His gaze moved past him, behind him, and Anders turned.

The Commander was walking towards them. He looked well, strong, _better_ \- no, if this was a friend of Justice’s who could help, it had to be a spirit.

“Let me guess,” Anders said. “Protection? Honor? Duty? No - Making Nate’s Life Difficult And Full Of Anxiety.”

“Freedom, actually,” Freedom said, in a dead-perfect imitation of the Commander’s straight-faced sense of humor.

This was the Commander how he’d first met him, Anders realized, in that cramped hallway in the Vigil as the darkspawn attacked. This was the Commander who hadn’t cared whether or not he’d killed the Templars who were going to drag him back to Kinloch Hold; the Commander who’d never let them take him back.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course.”

“Will this work?” Justice asked.

“We’ll have to talk,” Anders said. “But- I don’t see why it won’t.”

“Then I will go so that you can speak,” Justice said. “But - Anders?”

“What?”

“I will always come if you call.”

Yeah, like he was going to resort to _that_ ever again.

“And you should tell Nathaniel that you love him.”

Uh-huh, of _course_ he wou-

“Hey!” he exclaimed, but Justice was already gone. _“Hey! Justice! I don’t love him!”_

“Part of Freedom is being able to accept your own emotions,” Freedom said helpfully, and actually _this_ was why Anders hated Justice.

He was a meddling _busybody._

* * *

All Rajrad had said when he’d come to tell her about Marethari was that her children were there. She’d known Merrill had stayed in the north and had simply assumed that it was her and Theron-

But she’d walked into Sabrae’s camp, which she had refused to do before because Marethari had been there, Marethari who had left Tamlen for dead and sent Theron away, and it _wasn’t_ Theron.

She had all three of her children again. Her wonderful, precious children were all _alive_ and Tamlen was a Warden just like his brother and Merrill’s human seemed reasonable and Morrigan was back, with Hathen and the news that Satheraan had been returned and his mother had been found and Theron and he were finally _betrothed-!_

For an evening, for a morning, everything had seemed perfect, even with the losses of the clan and Sabrae’s uncertain future.

But the afternoon after they’d arrived Hathen had started _screaming;_ and screaming and _screaming._ Wordless shrieking at first, but then words, words to his mother that said that Theron was _dying-_

Ashalle had had too much experience with Hathen’s odd connection to his father over the last winter to disbelieve it. It was happening, what she’d feared. Theron dying somewhere up in those human lands, alone and without her - she was losing him. They’d gained Tamlen and now they had to give Theron.

Morrigan hadn’t wanted to, but Merrill and Tamlen and even Hathen had insisted on the mirror - the Eluvian, and she gave in. Tamlen led them through the shattered spires and along the crumbling paths and they stepped out in northern Ferelden so soon after - how _fast_ it had been!

Then the road, to Amaranthine the city, and then a ship to Denerim, and Hathen had screamed a second time and a _third_ time he was dying he was _dying-_

On the Denerim docks they heard of the Crow. Morrigan snarled and threatened and snapped and Tamlen bullied in his Warden armor and they made it to what they were told was Theron’s estate, and the door guards saw Morrigan’s wrath and refused to face it and it _had_ to be Theron’s estate, there were mosaics and murals - no one was _telling_ them anything everyone was running from them but Hathen squirmed in Morrigan’s hold and bolted up a staircase and down a hallway. They followed.

Theron was halfway to sitting up in his bed, propped up on pillows. Bandages wrapped around his neck, layers thick, and she couldn’t tell if he was awake or not.

 _“Babae!”_ Hathen shrieked, and tried to climb onto the bed. _“Babae!”_

Theron stirred and Alistair swooped in from the side and picked him up.

“No, pup, don’t disturb him-”

_“Babae! Babae!”_

“Shhhhhh, pup.”

Merrill pushed past them to the bed. There was a man of the clans Ashalle didn’t know who left his herb work on the side table and met her there, watching her exploring fingers cautiously.

“He _must_ sleep,” he warned.

“His _throat,_ ” Merrill sobbed, and the man took her hands away.

“If he moves he makes it worse. He _must_ stay insensate.”

Alistair was motioning for them to leave the room. Ashalle looked to Marian but she’d already gone to steer Merrill away from the bed. The man of the clans went back to his herbs and tipped something into her son’s mouth.

 _“Who did this to him?”_ Morrigan hissed once they’d reconvened in the sitting room outside. “The rumors are of a _Crow!_ Where is _Zevran!_ ”

“With his mother, I think,” he said, rocking Hathen. “Or Leliana, I asked her to come by today because she’s been worried.”

“The _Sister_ is here?” Morrigan sneered.

“Yeah. She’s Left Hand of the Divine now though.”

“Oh Maker,” Marian swore. “Merrill, we’re leaving, right now.”

“Theron’s _hurt!_ ”

“And the Divine’s _personal spymaster_ and _assassin_ is _in this building!_ ”

“I’m not leaving him!”

“Merrill, if she finds out about you- oh no, _Bethany,_ is she-”

“They’re both fine,” Alistair said. “Beth’s been helping with Theron.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and poked him with the point of her gauntlet. She hadn’t put off her armor since they left Hallarenis’haminathe, not even on the ship.

“And where do _you_ get off calling my sister _that?_ ”

“I like her, she’s nice.”

“You keep your hands off!”

“Hey, _I’m_ not the one courting her.”

“She’s being _courted!_ ”

“Take it up with your mother and the Teyrn of Highever.”

_“She’s courting **who!** ”_

“Shut it, you’ll wake him up!” Tamlen snapped at her.

“I’m gone for- why do I _ever_ leave them _alone-!_ ”

“They’ve been fine.”

“Merrill, I’m going to be back, I have to go-”

“Alistair,” Ashalle said as Marian went off to find her family. “What happened to my son?”

He glanced down at the boy he was holding.

“Um-”

“He has already seen,” Morrigan told him. “He has felt- he deserves to know why and how as much as anyone.”

“Some Crow came into the estate- Maker, six days ago now. He was going to hurt Damien, so Theron rammed him, no armor or shield or anything. They were at the top of the stairs. Theron smashed his head and the Crow stuck a knife between his ribs.”

Merrill gasped and Tamlen clutched her hand.

“But his neck,” Ashalle said.

“We sent for Anders because the only mages who knew any healing were Beth and Iro. He got here, and he fixed what they hadn’t been able to. We woke him up to make sure everything was all right, and-”

The lines around his eyes were tight with distress as he remembered.

“Anders said that if you hit your head hard enough, you might not be able to recognize anything. Theron woke up like that, and it was all- it was me and Beth and Anders and Zevran and he- he panicked, or- he didn’t recognize us or where he was and I guess he- he thought he’d been _stolen_ or-”

 _“Oh no,”_ Ashalle whispered, horrified.

“He used one of Zevran’s knives,” Alistair said quietly. “Zevran hasn’t really been okay since. But Theron kept waking up, just for a little bit, and he could recognize people and yesterday, we woke him up properly again and he was _fine,_ he remembered everything up to falling down the stairs. But his muscles seized up around the wound, and it tore some things inside, and then he started coughing and most of the wound opened up again, so we’re keeping him completely unconscious and trying again.”

“But he’s going to be all right,” Tamlen said fiercely.

“Anders says it’s not going to kill him. But he hasn’t promised anything else.”

“I’m helping,” Merrill said.

“Uh-”

“You don’t get to tell me _‘no’!_ ” she told Alistair. “He’s my brother! My _clan!_ And you’ve had the same three mages on him for the last six days! How much have they rested! How much magic can they even call right now! I was a First and I _know_ how to heal!”

“My healing skills are little enough,” Morrigan said bitterly. “But if it is _power_ that is needed…”

“I’m a mage,” Hathen said, squirming in Alistair’s arms. “I’ll help!”

“You’re a little young for it, pup.”

“He can fetch bandages or water as well as I or Tamlen,” Ashalle said. “This is his father. We wouldn’t keep him away.”

“Well, all right,” Alistair said doubtfully. “But Anders is in charge here. If he wants you all out when he comes back…”

“He can _try_ to evict me,” Morrigan sneered, and took her son from him to sweep into the room.

Ashalle went to speak with - Iro, it must be - over his herbs, quietly asking what he needed as whitish light bloomed over the bed from Merrill and Morrigan as they began to work out how to reinforce each other’s skill and power. It washed out the shadows in the room for a moment, until it was joined by a golden glow.

She glanced over - it was Hathen, apparently determined to help no matter what anyone said.

* * *

There was a dragon curled up around him, spiky and lean. The spread of its wing blocked the sky, and the light filtering through the membrane made this hollow between side and tail dim and purple. The dragon’s breath kept the air warm and humid, and it’s body was a secondary source of heat, warmed by the burning magic within.

One great golden eye opened, glinting at him, and the sight of it was calming.

Theron relaxed and closed his own eyes. The dragon rustled as it coiled tighter, enclosing and protecting.


	9. Chapter 9

“Yes, Prince Estefan is gone. Do you know, he seemed happy to leave? I did finally get an answer about why he hated the Hero’s fiancé so much, though. An interesting story-”

* * *

“-so little information, we _had_ to learn more. You would not _believe-_ ”

* * *

Rumors are easy to spread. They pass quickly from person to person.

* * *

“A Crow, just like what attacked the Hero-”

* * *

“Everyone of any standing in Antiva City, _I_ heard. And you know what _Antivan parties_ are like, and he was at all the best ones.”

* * *

“A _prince’s daughter!_ That’s _regicide!_ How is anyone letting that stand!”

* * *

“-hired by Teyrn Loghain. And he awful close to the Queen, everyone says-”

“Can’t be. Loghain’s dead. The Hero killed him. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well - he wanted to keep the throne, he wanted his daughter safe… not so far-fetched, is it?”

“ _‘Safe’_ , heh. Oh, I _bet._ ”

* * *

“Two or three people a night! Maybe even _more!_ ”

* * *

“-have to check to see if the Queen turns out elf-bloods. I hear he’s awful pretty.”

* * *

“Do you think- do you think that _she_ could-”

“Don’t speak of it! Even _Empress Celene_ admires her, of _course_ she would!”

“A _royal assassin-_ ”

* * *

“Just a common whore! It’s a _disgrace,_ is what it is! An affront to the position!”

“Any more than the elf savage?”

“That’s _our Hero_ you’re talking about! He’s got a mabari! Don’t you insult a mabari like that, you fancy-footed Marcher, they only pick worthy people!”

* * *

“How much did he get paid, do you think?”

“For the killing, or for the sex?”

“Both! Everyone knows Amaranthine has money- so do you think it was a step up, or the only thing that could match what he was earning?”

* * *

 “-dropped right off a roof and split the Crow’s _head_ open, all over the street-”

* * *

“ _Crass,_ that’s what this is.”

“That handmaid of hers _is_ close to her, isn’t she? Never sat right with me, an elf, much less an _Orlesian_ one…”

“You know that elf tart calls her by her _name?_ To her _face?_ It’s true, I’ve heard her! Just like Cailan and her father did and the Teyrn does now!”

“ _Disgraceful._ Ought to teach her a lesson. Should be good young Fereldan girl there at her side-”

* * *

“Do you think he sold himself to Teyrn Loghain, too, before he went to kill the Wardens?”

“He would never! The Hero of River Dane wasn’t _himself_ during the Blight, yes, we all know - but he’d just lost Cailan! He loved him like a son, and you _know_ he was never the same after we lost Maric.”

“Nothing’s been the same since we lost Maric.”

“ _Or,_ as I was _saying,_ do you think that came free with the rest?”

“No, she’s right, the Teyrn never would have. But do you think he whored himself out to the Wardens? They’re a tight group. And nothing like having some shared fun, that’s what a mercenary captain I used to hire always said.”

* * *

“-his _bastard_ daughter, sure, but still his _daughter._ I’ll be watching the Queen much more closely when he’s around, now-”

“And what good will _you_ be against an assassin? A good one wouldn’t be _seen coming_ anyway.”

“What if she’s suborned him? She likes twisty-minded elves, anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there’s _this_ one, and that Orlesian handmaid of hers, have you ever had to talk to her? It’s _awful._ And the Arl - well, he’s the Hero and all, good man, but take a look at him and you have _no idea_ what’s going on in his head. And he never comes to court!”

“I guess he’s busy?”

“Or _maybe_ he’s off doing _her_ business. She did give them Ostagar, after all. What’s she planning, do you think?”

* * *

“No no no, don’t you see, that’s all backwards. He’s the _Arl’s_ man. It doesn’t matter what the _Queen_ wants with an assassin, it’s what the _Arl_ needs one for.”

* * *

“Regicide…”

“And we were _there_ when he killed Loghain. Totally unmoved. And Maric’s bastard, _he_ was all for it! Not that Loghain was the rightful monarch or anything, but he _was_ in charge.”

“I suppose that _is_ a shocking lack of respect for authority.”

* * *

“Do you think the Arl hires him out?”

“I’d rather find out if the _Arl_ is a free as getting engaged to a whore would suggest. I bet under all that inscrutable melancholy he’s _really-_ ”

* * *

“Queen Anora _did_ take all of Gwaren’s bannorns for herself. She owns a third of the country now! It’s that damned Orlesian she keeps around, influencing her like that, making her all _Imperial-_ ”

“Now wait just a minute!”

“What else would she let a _regicidal assassin_ hang around for? Arl and Hero or no, his, ahem, _personal history_ is bad enough without _that._ It’s a _scandal,_ is what it is.”

“Oh, what, a scandal to distract us from how she’s going to have us all murdered in our beds?”

“Well…”

* * *

Rumors spread even faster when they have some basis in truth. Anyone who could play the Game well knew that.

* * *

Four days ago Ser Tabris had rushed in, grabbed Anders, and they’d both rushed out. Nathaniel hadn’t even _heard_ that it had happened until it already had, and it had left him with a lot of very pressing questions, mostly involving what sort of scenario the Commander and the others could have _possibly_ gotten into that required _Anders._

This had not been helped by the report he’d gotten from Amaranthine City complaining about a very rude Dalish in Warden armor rushing through to the docks with a bunch of apostates and a small child.

 _First_ of all, what were Lady Morrigan and the Commander’s siblings doing back in the north? _Second_ of all, why had _they_ been in such a rush to go to Denerim, too?

Something was happening at the capital and he was waiting for the news that someone had attempted a coup, or - Maker, who knew what, it was too horrible to contemplate.

He’d gotten the rest of the Commander’s finished paperwork by courier last week, though, so _that_ was something. He and Delilah had been busy putting his orders into action. Money was flowing, people were being hired, and Delilah said that the census for the Queen was coming along.

It had been months ago, now, that he’d gone into the arling’s records and tried to find Anders’s family. He was resisting the urge to ride out to the village in his free time and go ask. Anders wasn’t here right now, and anyway, what would he _say?_

_Did you have a son, or a brother, twenty years ago or so, who was a mage? You lost him on the way to the fair, you were driving the goats - yes? Well, he’s all grown up, he’s a Warden, he really hates the Chantry and he’s saved all our lives a couple of times with how good he is at healing, just stop by the Vigil any time-_

It just didn’t sound right. Better to focus on the problem of reorganizing the Wardens. The Commander had confirmed Anders’s promotion to captain of the non-existent Mage Corps, but, well, they had to _exist_ now. The Wardens of Ferelden had three captains where it had had two before, and this Mage Corps business was… new, at the very least. How was it going to be organized? Where would the Command be? The mages couldn’t all be in one place, they should be spread out, surely, but who to where and how would they rotate and so many other questions of logistics plagued him.

Not to mention the fact that the Commander had never actually said any of the Wardens could go _back_ to their posts, so Kal’Hirol and Soldier’s Peak were standing empty of Wardens. King Dace had started forwarding complaints from the Legion of the Dead, and just this morning he’d gotten a similar one from King Harrowmont. Ferelden’s Wardens helped patrol the clear path in the Deep Roads, and without them, people were getting nervous.

Nathaniel had called them here, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to send them back. Since the Commander was in contact, now. Nominally. More than he had been over the winter, anyway.

But he probably _would_ send Oghren back with his group soon. They could keep organizing the period sweeps of the southern farmlands to check for hidden Taint sources from here, and with some of the Wardens gone back to Kal’Hirol it would be _easier_ to feed everyone, but-

There was a knock on his door - more like a thud, because Oghren still thought of all doors as dwarven doors that needed a heavy to fist to be heard.

In true Oghren fashion, he didn’t wait to be invited in.

“Tabris is back,” he said. “No Anders, but she’s lookin’ worried. Probably comin’ up here once she’s got the horse settled.”

“Good. Thank you.”

He started straightening his desk.

“Oghren.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still here.”

“I ain’t missin’ this,” he said, plopping himself down in one of the chairs and putting his feet up on the raised ring of decorations around Nathaniel’s desk. He was going to scar the wood like that. “Girl comes runnin’ for the healer and hightails right out again? Then the witch comes tearin’ through Amaranthine? Commander and Chantry Boy got themselves into some shit, and I’m findin’ out what.”

“I could tell you to leave.”

“And _who’s_ the Senior Warden here?”

“It’s _still_ me, actually.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t there for the Blight, boy, so you can shut your trap.”

Oh, Oghren. A delight as always.

Ser Tabris arrived as predicted.

“The Arl-Commander needs you in Denerim,” she told him.

“And what _has_ been going on in Denerim?”

She told him.

“And you’re _sure_ he’s not dead,” Nathaniel said, voice too high and squeaking on the edges, because his mind’s eye was filled with twenty to thirty years of being Arl-Commander and _nooooo,_ he did not want that. The Commander had Delilah now, he should ask to retire, this job was _far_ too much stress on him, anyone else could run the Wardens - you needed nerves of steel for this job, and he’d worn his out, quite a lot, because the Commander was a handful and he just kept- he just kept being _himself._

Which was a good person, but _still._

“And how panicked are they all?” Oghren asked. “Nah, don’t tell me, I can see it on your face. You don’t want _him,_ you want _me._ ”

“No, they need the Warden-Constable,” Ser Tabris said. “Because he’s Acting Arl-Commander if the Arl isn’t available, Captain Mac Maric said. And he _won’t_ be, by the time of the Landsmeet to decide the bannorn apportions.”

“But I don’t _know_ anything about that,” Nathaniel protested.

“This is your job and you’re stuck with it,” Oghren said. “Don’t worry your pretty pants off. I’m comin’ too. You can’t stop me. Your gonna be in need of a level head around there.”

He should tell the Commander to fire him and make Oghren Warden-Constable instead.

* * *

Maxwell Trevelyan liked his chances, statistically speaking. There had been six appropriate men in Denerim for taking to husband last week, and _this_ week-

Well, Prince Estefan may never have been a serious consideration, but he’d been an _option._ He was gone now. Prince Sebastian was another unclear candidate, since he hadn’t been properly invited and it could cause trouble with Starkhaven, if the contender for the throne turned up King of Ferelden. But Prince Sebastian had been coming out of his brooding over being dismissed from the Chantry to have _talks_ with the other Marchers in the city. Just days ago the two of them had had a nice luncheon, and he’d agreed to send a letter of introduction to his parents for the prince.

He hadn’t _said,_ but it had been clear to Maxwell that he was working on reclaiming his throne. Well, good luck to him.

So that left him, Rosaire, Prince Baldewin, and Ser Reynaud. Ser Reynaud had never even _tried_ to disguise his boredom, and would flirt with anyone who stood still long enough and seemed vaguely interested.

And Prince Baldewin, well-

“Why are you accommodating him?” the prince was demanding over lunch. This had become a habit of the Queen’s. Every two or three days she would invite them all to lunch, and they’d have fifteen or twenty minutes together, because the Queen was a busy woman.

“I am _‘accommodating’_ the Arl, as you so put it,” she said frostily. Couldn’t he tell that he was earning her ire? “Because he is an _Arl._ He needs time to send for his second and for the Warden-Constable to arrive, and he will have it.”

“He’s a Warden! He has no business in politics!”

“Perhaps that is not the way in the Anderfels, Prince Baldewin, but it is how things are here.”

“The Wardens have been gaining power in the Anderfels since my father was a boy, and they’re more than willing to use it! Once you let them in, they never leave! Don’t you see, Your Royal Highness, you owe them for your throne and they’ll never let you forg-”

 _“Prince Baldewin,”_ she cut him off. “Are you _suggesting_ that I am not _capable_ of recognizing when I am being _used?_ ”

Oh, the prince had _really_ put his foot in it.

“I-”

“ _I_ will not be the accessory of _your_ political views,” the Queen informed him. “I find your presence and your lack of consideration for Ferelden’s political milieu irritating and very nearly offensive. If you cannot let this be, you will _leave._ ”

Prince Baldewin got up and left.

So it was just him and Rosaire Desroschers now. Perfect.

“And have _you_ opinions about pushing back the Landsmeet?” she asked them, tone still sharp.

Maxwell let Rosaire go first, so that if the other man made a hack of it, whatever _he_ said would look better by comparison.

“I think it’s very kind of you,” Rosaire told her. “In Orlais, people would be gleeful about it, and do their best to exclude him for the rest of the season. I see why they say Fereldans aren’t any good at the Game, but I like this way better.”

Of course, if he’d learned anything about Rosaire Desroschers in their - albeit short - acquaintance, is was that he was an earnest young man who seemed honestly, simply happy to be here.

“A wise political move, Your Royal Highness,” Maxwell said, since Rosaire had adequately covered her emotional virtues. “Excluding anyone, especially a powerful lord, would only cause troubles later.”

He wanted to ask if she’d taken the rumors from the ball into account, but it wouldn’t be wise to bring that up. It would sound like doubt, and anyway, she was far too intelligent not to already have someone handling it.  

* * *

There were two archery butts set up in the gardens on a run of unused land, tucked in between the back of the stables and the cliff-corner of the wall. Nehna had taken to practicing here with her throwing knives, as a good distraction and as keeping up a skill she didn’t often use. Throwing knives were really for people, not hunting, and she’d had little enough reason to kill anyone since she’d become a merchant.

The morning after the sudden arrival of the rest of the Arl’s family, his mother silently walked up when she was practicing with a pack, quiver, and bow and started taking shots at the other butt. 

Nehna eyed the woman’s aim as she kept up her throwing. One of the arrows seemed to miss its mark, falling in the outer ring, and Nehna lined up her next knife to make a better hit on her own butt.

It landed solidly in the center of the middle ring. The Arl’s mother’s next arrow stuck in the inner ring. Nehna tried to match it but fell short- the third arrow of her opponent stuck cleanly through the center of her target.

“Ashalle Lyna Sabrae,” she introduced herself, lowering her bow.

Nehna flipped the knife she’d been about to throw around in her fingers a few times. So they were doing this _now._

“Nehna,” she said.

“You don’t claim your clan?”

“I haven’t lived with them in thirty-six years,” Nehna told her. “None of my children are Dalish. Talanulea declared me an exile without a name. If my parents or their Keeper wanted to contest it, where are they?”

“Your brother knows,” Ashalle said. “But there wasn’t much time between my children arriving and us leaving again. I’m sure they would have-”

“They wouldn’t love the man I left for,” she cut her off. “And now I-”

No, she didn’t need to know about Tanis.

“-they wouldn’t accept my family, either. Or my friends, my business. I won’t go back to them.”

“To Revasina?” Ashalle asked. “Or to the Dalish?”

“My company has been trading with Hallarenis’haminathe through the Chasind ever since clans moved in,” Nehna informed her. “The Crafters of the clans have iron and mineral salts and raw materials from the Chasind and the Avvar and the Sulfur Lakes and all down the Sundering Sea because _I_ arranged it. If I was going to go back to the Dalish, I would have already.”

Ashalle was silent a moment.

“Then I owe you more than I thought.”

“And what have I ever done for you that you would owe me?” she demanded.

“Are you not responsible for your son?” Ashalle asked, and Nehna stalked down the archery run to wrench her throwing knives free. _‘Everything he is he made himself’_ and _‘I didn’t give him to you, he’s mine’_ warred in her head.

Ashalle came down to pull out her arrows.

“My apologies,” she said, surprising Nehna. “I mean that - when Theron was sent away with the Wardens, I was certain it was the last time I would see him. He was sick and grieving for Tamlen and keeping his hurt close. I left Sabrae, because I couldn’t stand to live in the same clan as a Keeper who would send away one of our own in need to die. But when I saw him again, he was healthy and he was _happy,_ with a second family and in love and Satheraan was at the center of it all. And just this year, it was Satheraan who found Tamlen, and made sure he was brought back to us. If not for your son, I wouldn’t have mine. And he wouldn’t exist without you.”

“It has been a long time since any of the People cared,” Nehna told her stiffly.

“Satheraan is family of mine,” Ashalle said. “And so are you.”

They walked back to the end of the run together. When Ashalle picked up her pack, it clinked. Nehna had been trading and traveling too long not to know what metal sound like, and had suspicions that were confirmed when Ashalle invited her up to the section of the wall that overlooked the private area of the garden and set up a sitting rug and a samovar with cups.

“Is this really an appropriate time?” she asked.

“My son will not die,” Ashalle said. “I trust my daughter on this, and she also assured me of the Warden healer’s competence. Why not talk about something happy?”

“I don’t have any negotiating gifts. My assets are all down south.”

“We don’t need to worry about that yet,” Ashalle assured her, and set the samovar to warming. “This is just discussing them. Something has come up with my son, you see.”

The man was bedridden, what new developments could there _possibly_ be that she wouldn’t have heard about?

“Sabrae’s Keeper,” Ashalle said, once they’d both gotten settled comfortably. “Marethari Talas Vhadan’ena Sabrae. I was not there for this, but she took in a demon for fear that it would tempt my daughter instead, and she had to be killed. Her mismanagement has made Sabrae small. With my children and I _here,_ there are only eight adults of our clan in Hallarenis’haminathe, and only one child. When Theron left - the last I had seen them - we had some hundred adults or more.”

It was good the _ise’haurasha_ wasn’t ready yet. The Blight was six years ago, and one hundred down to twelve made about one dead adult a month at the least. And that didn’t count the children they must have lost, with so many adults.

“We have no Keeper,” Ashalle continued. “And she had no First. Merrill is barred, and the only mage we have is my grandson. He’s a child. Sabrae doesn’t really want a mage from another clan called in to be Keeper. They were at least _ambivalent_ about my suggestion of inviting your brother with his wife and children to take up the job, and that was really because they have a family connection to Theron. But Merrill suggested, when we were speaking of what to do, and the clan was much more interested in, making Theron Lord Sabrae.”

 _“‘Lord’?”_ Nehna said, because she knew she hadn’t misheard, but it was such a _thought._ “You would-”

“As my daughter reminded us,” Ashalle said. “The People did not have Lords because we had no lands, and so our Houses became clans. But we have our third city. There is nothing stopping us.”

A House with a Lord.

“And he is a lord in the human lands, and he is hailed as a hero by them. We have given him a naming title, but it isn’t the same. Surely we couldn’t let the humans do better than us?”

“My son brings nothing to this,” Nehna said, uneasily thinking of everything amassed on the other side of the marriage-to-be. The wealth of Amaranthine, the power of being Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden, the respect of being a Hahren, the honor surely granted to the man who’d secured land for homes again, and now perhaps the Lordship of a House.

“He brings himself and he brings his love,” Ashalle reminded her. “That’s enough.”

* * *

They were having an argument.

“It would make him _happy!_ ” Diego insisted, keeping his voice low.

“He’s upset, we should leave him alone!” Tiar hissed back.

“Captain Mac Maric has been saying-”

“I don’t care what he thinks!”

“But _you_ were saying that you needed better training and better training isn’t going to be doing what you’ve been doing because there’s only so far you can get practicing forms by yourself and we know he isn’t going to hurt you and he’d really like it because it would show you trust him and he’s not happy and he was before so if he has something nice maybe he’ll smile and mean it,” Diego said all in one breath, because he knew how to keep her from getting a word in edgewise.

Tiar crossed her arms.

“He’s in a bad mood.”

“He’s in a _sad_ mood,” Diego countered. “I’m going to hug him because I like hugs and I’m going to tell him you want to see him and you can’t stop me.”

She _could,_ because he’d told her what he was going to do, but he ducked and rolled when she snatched for him and after he was out the door, well, it wasn’t worth it. Someone would see and they’d get a scolding.

So Tiar took her knives and went down the graveled practice area and sulked under Diego’s tree to show that she did _not_ approve. Diego came down leading _Maestra_ Revasina by the hand and she had a spike of feeling about that. _He_ could do that…

“Ah,” _Maestra_ Revasina said, mustering a tiny smile. Maybe it was real, maybe not, but the _trying_ was genuine. “Missing training, hm? I am sorry.”

He’d been busy being upset, why was _he_ sorry.

“Train me,” she said.

“Of course. Where were-”

“No,” Tiar said. “Knives. _With_ knives. _Real_ training. I thought I could take Salvail Arainai because he was just a courtesan and I couldn’t. If I’d been _really_ fighting-”

“ _Isagadi,_ ” he gently interrupted. “My dear. He was a graduated Crow, nearly my age. No Crow survives so long without a good deal of skill. Not even the courtesans.”

“But I should have been _better._ ”

“Failure is not so bad, Tiar,” _Maestra_ Revasina said. “It is not a thing I would have you scared of.”

“And when it means I _die?_ ” she challenged.

“Not scared of, except when reasonable,” he amended. “If you really want me to do this, Tiar-”

“I do!”

“Very well. Diego, could you fetch my knives, please?”

He sped off to get them, and Tiar shifted her weight. They were going to do this. It was going to be real. Soon.

“If we are to do this-”

“I can do it!” she snapped. “I’m not weak! I’m not- I’ll be good enough!”

He held up his hands.

“That is not so much what concerns me,” he said. “I will not have this be like training in the Crows. We will both be armed and fighting against each other this time, yes. But I want you to tell me to stop if I scare you, or if I hurt you and I have not realized it. If there are things you are not sure of, because I did not explain well or you are not certain of your skills, tell me. I do not want you telling me everything is well when it is not. There are no punishments here, not for that.”

“I’m not weak.”

“It is not always bad to be vulnerable,” _Maestra_ Revasina told her. “But you are not weak, Tiar, no matter how well or not you fight. It was not weak to run from the Crows. It was not weak to make the journey from Rialto to Vigil’s Keep without guidance. And it is certainly not weak to put yourself in this position, to give me the trust to spar with you with real blades and sharpened steel. You are a brave young woman, Tiar, and I- I am very proud of what you have accomplished.”

She wanted to hear him say that again. And again, and again, for the rest of her life, he’d said he was _proud_ of her-

Diego returned with _Maestra_ Revasina’s knives, and Tiar resolved to never, _ever_ stop making _Maestra_ Revasina proud.

She’d start by being so good that she’d never fall prey to something like Salvail Arainai’s attack again.

* * *

Anora Mac Tir had put off the Landsmeet until Theron was well enough to attend. A message was sent the evening Nathaniel and Oghren arrived from Amaranthine that his second-in-command had come to stand in for him. The message went out to the nobles from the palace that the Landsmeet would be the next morning, catching everyone by surprise at dinner.

It should have been the end of it, but-

“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel said again. “I _did_ try to argue. But Arl Mallory, she made a ruckus about the _real_ holders of titles appearing. Eamon Guerrin agreed with her, I’ve never seen her look so sour before.”

“She wasn’t like this _before,_ ” Alistair complained.

It did seem out of character for her, from their interactions before. Theron wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I think she was honestly trying to look out for the Commander’s interests,” Nathaniel said apologetically. “It _does_ look a little suspicious. With my father, and stepping in, and - well.”

“But he’s not _well._ ”

He was sitting _right here._

“The Queen has already delayed once.”

Theron pushed himself out of bed. Zevran and Alistair both yelled: _“No!”_ at the same time.

Just because he wasn’t supposed to _talk_ didn’t mean he couldn’t _stand up!_

He was a little light-headed. But he wasn’t going to show that. They’d force him back into bed. He could walk around, and he could go sit in the palace hall for the day and listen and vote.

“Theron, please-” Zevran started to beg, and Theron reached out and ran a hand comfortingly through his loose hair, gently trailing down to cup his cheek, covering the tattoos.

Zevran placed his hand over Theron’s.

“You are not _well,_ ” he stressed.

Theron dropped a kiss in his hair and pulled away to the wash basin, pouring water to clean off.

“Your bandages-!”

They had more of them, and it would be nice to feel the air again. He could feel that his skin was damp under the linen. It was uncomfortable.

The bandages came away with dried crusted blood and yellowy fluids. Theron started to carefully wipe his neck clean, and Zevran sidled up and took the cloth from him as Alistair and Nathaniel got into a hushed argument behind them.

“So intractable as always, my dear Warden,” he murmured, focused on Theron’s neck and not looking up at his face. He’d been doing this since Anders had let him out of the induced sleep yesterday evening to sign and seal Nathaniel’s authorization to the Landsmeet that hadn’t worked. “If you _must_ go-”

Theron nudged Zevran’s chin up so he’d have to look at him, but his eyes skittered away despite that.

This wouldn’t do. He leaned in and kissed him, and then took his head in both hands, pressing with a bit of insistent pressure.

Zevran finally looked him in the eye. His expression shuddered briefly, but then he let the fear show through.

How Theron wanted to be able to _say_ something, to reassure him. He dropped his hands instead, folding both over Zevran’s heart and looking at him intently. He’d keep him from pain. He _would._

Zevran smiled weakly and took his hands with the one that wasn’t holding the washrag, and started dabbing away at Theron’s neck again.

 _“Fine,”_ Alistair said loudly, a minute later. He’d lost the argument, by the sound of it. “But he’s not going alone! _I’ll_ go with him! I’m a Freeman, I’m a Lord, I can’t vote _for_ him but I can help! If he needs to have something known I can read out what he writes.”

“It would be hard passing a paper around the entire Landsmeet,” Nathaniel allowed. “He needs to get dressed for it.”

Theron took a step forward and kicked the wall to get their attention, and glared at both of them when they looked over.

“He is currently mute, not _deaf,_ ” Zevran helpfully interpreted. “Perhaps you should speak _to_ him and not _about_ him.”

“Right,” Alistair said, starting to turn pink from the embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Nathaniel’s guidelines for being properly dressed for the Landsmeet was partial armor and his sword, because _‘you’re Warden-Commander before you’re Arl, really, and the Hero as well. Put on the cape and you’re representing both as much as you need to.’_

They had to rebandage his neck before anything else, and it was _very annoying_ needing to have help to get into his quilted gambeson and the breastplate with the Warden’s device on it. He’d never needed help with armor before, and he insisted on putting on the long leather gloves of dressed-up armor by himself, as well as his boots. Alistair had to tie on his cape, and he let Zevran do his sword belt, because Zevran was still reluctant to let him go anywhere.

He hugged him once he was done buckling the belt.

“Be careful,” be pleaded in a whisper, and Theron hugged him back firmly. He was walking to the palace and back, he’d be fine.

Alistair ducked out to put on his own armor, and Zevran and Nathaniel escorted him _very carefully_ down the stairs. It was entirely unnecessary. His balance was _fine._

They stayed with him until Alistair returned. Zevran only let them go after he’d gotten Alistair’s promise that he’d make Theron come back the _instant_ it looked like he might need more healing or rest, and scritched Fen behind the ears and told him to be good and look out for Theron.

Theron understood why he was nervous but this was still a bit much, especially when Alistair followed it up by insisting on walking _slowly_ to the palace.

The area out front of the palace was crowded with the hopeful Banns, extraneous servants of the nobility, and those Freemen who’d come to witness the Landsmeet. Alistair had to push the first few people on the edge of the crowd out of the way, but then recognition set in at the Warden plate. People started moving out the way on their own, and then-

_“Hail to the Hero, hail to his health!”_

_“Andraste’s Blessings, Arl-Commander!”_

_“The Wardens! The Wardens!”_

Oh, people still liked him here. That was nice! He should go out to the city - he hadn’t done that since they’d arrived, but to learn about coinage. He should go to the alienage, and see how people were doing. There had been an Orlesian flower-seller during the Blight in the West Market. Maybe she was still around. He could get flowers for Zevran and Merrill. That would be good.

Theron waved at the crowd and smiled, and nudged Alistair to do the same. His friend followed suit with noticeable embarrassment and discomfort, but taking notice of people noticing _him_ made him speed up, so that when they actually _reached_ the palace they were going at an acceptable pace.

The Landsmeet hadn’t started yet. The nobility were standing about in the antechamber, talking or grumbling in groups. Everyone took note as they walked in.

“Arl Theron!” Arl Mallory called, and stepped up to clasp his arm in greeting. “I knew you could make it.”

“It was concerning to see Nathaniel Howe stepping in for you,” Arl Eamon said, as others converged on them. “You _are_ well?”

Theron reclaimed his hand and unbuckled the strap that held the high collar of his gambeson up, showing the thick swathe of bandages against his neck and pointing at Alistair.

“He can’t talk right now,” Alistair explained. “Slit throat.”

The Arls and Fergus, battle veterans all, simultaneously hissed in sympathetic pain.

“Is it…?” Leonas Bryland started to ask, and trailed off uneasily.

“It’s healing,” Alistair said. “But it’ll go better if he rests his voice.”

“It is well to see you up awake again, Arl-Commander,” the Queen said. “Now, we can proceed.”

Everyone filed into the palace hall. Anora took her seat on the throne on the dais, and everyone else found their designated places at the two long tables set out for them. Most of the chairs were empty, as the bannorns still had seats at the table no matter if there was someone there to fill them or not. It was a heavy reminder of how much Ferelden had lost, and still had to regain, to see the tables so sparse. An extra chair had to be fetched for Alistair, but _then,_ they began.

It didn’t take long for Theron’s complete unpreparedness for all of this to make him burn in silent humiliation. The Crow’s attack and then his own concussed actions had kept him out of what socializing he _could_ have done, this late in the process. Names came up for bannorns and sometimes people gave short speeches on the merits of a favorite candidate or talked down one they didn’t like, and he had no way of judging them. He’d never really met any of these people. He hadn’t been to the parties and fêtes that people must have thrown, or luncheons or whatever else it was people did. He couldn’t gauge how much of any of this was an accurate assessment and how much was political maneuvering. He had no baseline, no standard, no _experience._

This was _awful._ He paid enough attention to the first couple votes to get an idea of how they proceeded, and then nudged Alistair and indicated that he wanted something to write with. Alistair beckoned someone over and asked after paper and ink in a low voice. An elven servant delivered them, and Theron gave her a smile and tucked a gold coin into her hand. You were meant to tip palace servants in silver, and humans more than elves, but _this_ sort of _‘propriety’_ was nothing he’d have a part of. The servant’s eyes went wide at finding the gleam of gold in her palm, and she ducked briefly to a knee before hurrying off.

“Someone’s going to accuse you of buying the servants,” Alistair murmured to him.

The first thing Theron wrote on his paper was: _‘They can think what they like. Maybe they’ll pay their servants more to keep their secrets safe.’_

Alistair sighed, and Theron got to business, keeping half an ear on the proceedings as he wrote. Some bannorns were named but immediately dismissed as having _‘no suitable lords’_ available. All of the bannorns of Amaranthine passed thus.

“For the Bannorn of Lothering, in the Arling of South Reach,” Anora finally announced from her throne. “We have received the petitions of Elspeth Bevis, of Ostwick; Leandra Amell, of Kirkwall-”

Theron hurriedly finished his thoughts, foregoing the last few sentences to simply write down a few points, and handed the paper to Alistair as Anora finished announcing the last of the names of those who had put in for the title. There were a few - Lothering was a large bannorn, as they went, and while it was still suffering the ravages of the Blight, it had been an important trade town once, and would be again.

“Lords and Ladies of Ferelden, are there any who would speak for one of these petitioners?”

Alistair stood.

“Amaranthine would speak for Leandra Amell, Your Royal Highness.”

She acknowledged his following of the script with a shallow nod of her head.

“Then speak.”  

“The Amells are a noble of family of Kirkwall, this is true,” Alistair recited from what Theron had written. “But Leandra Amell is the widow of a Fereldan Freeman, one Malcolm Hawke, formerly the apothecary for the town of Lothering. Leandra Amell left her life in Kirkwall as a young woman to marry for love, and spent almost thirty years living as a Freewoman of Ferelden. Her family served Lothering as they could, in healing and neighborly assistance, even after the death of her husband. Her elder daughter and her only son fought in the army at Ostagar, and were forced to flee ahead of the horde. She lost her son on the road to darkspawn, and the family lived as refugees with the rest of the Fereldans in Kirkwall until her eldest’s martial skill won them fortune enough for Lady Amell to reclaim her ancestral home in Kirkwall from the later misfortune and debt of her house. The family was known for assisting the refugees and the other poor of Kirkwall until they were forced to flee again from their home after the catastrophe in that city.”

“That’s well and good,” one of the current Banns spoke up. “But there are Fereldans who _didn’t_ run who are also asking for this position.”

Alistair looked to him, and Theron held up his free hand as a sign for patience to the rest of the room while he finished writing out this reply. Creators, was this _slow._ The necessary delay made him feel like his response was losing impact.

“Where is the shame in leaving?” Alistair was finally able to read out for the room. “Lothering was the first place in Ferelden to fall to the horde after the defeat at Ostagar. The people who went to rebuild after the Blight was defeated must be afforded honor for that, yes. But how is it a lesser deed to help your people when they are poor strangers in a foreign land? Kirkwall was not nice to those who fled the Blight. The Amells were the only ones able to secure a position, and I saw for myself how much they were respected by their fellow Fereldans when I was in Kirkwall last year. As well, have any of the others considered that the Bannorn of Lothering now borders Dalish lands? Lady Amell’s daughters have proven themselves to the Dalish. They are known as honorable and respectful, and should there be tensions sometime in the future, things would proceed easier with an Amell in the position of authority on the Fereldan side.”

“Are there any who would speak for another petitioner?” Anora asked, and Alistair sat back down. Theron listened as the Bann who’d challenged his speech gave her support for one of the Fereldan applicants.

Anora asked for anyone who would speak against any of the petitioners. No one wanted to, for Lothering, and the vote was called.

 _‘In favor of Elspeth Bevis’_ was the first vote. No one raised their hand. _‘In favor of Leandra Amell’_ was second, and Theron and Fergus had their hands up before Anora had even finished saying _‘Amell’_. One or two of the Banns voted in favor as well, a few seconds later, but the rest of the room kept an eye on Bryland. This was how it had been the whole Landsmeet, so far - people held off on Bannorns under Arls or Teyrns until they knew where the opinion of the higher noble in question lay.

Bryland raised his hand for Leandra. Most of the rest of the room followed suit.

“Then by the will of the Landsmeet,” Anora proclaimed. “Leandra Amell is created Bann of Lothering.”

Theron watched in satisfaction as Erlina, acting as the court scribe, quickly filled in the official writ. Anora and Bryland approached the table, and both affixed their signatures and seals.

The good feeling lasted until the final vote on the bannorns, buoyed by his imaginings of how the Amells would react. Leandra would be relieved. Merrill would be happy, because her human family would be close to her Dalish one, and she’d never have to spend very much time away from either. It was a simple matter of taking the Imperial Highway. With the Amells in power, perhaps his people could make a real effort to trade with Ferelden. Or maybe he could convince Nehna into extending her company-

“Is there any other business of the Landsmeet, Lords and Ladies?” Anora asked. Another formal statement, the beginning of the close.

Except that Arl Eamon stood up.

“Respectfully, my Queen,” he said. “I have a point of business.”

Anora wasn’t so far away that they couldn’t all see her eyebrows raise as she said: “Then speak.”

“My peers of Ferelden,” he said, still standing. “This morning we have heard a great many petitions to become part of our beloved country, and I believe that we have shown true discernment and perspicuity in our decisions. I congratulate you all.”

Surprising, Theron wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but this wasn’t it. Nice of him, though.

“Regretfully-”

_Oh?_

“-there is one who is poised to join our ranks whom I fear is _entirely_ unsuitable to be afforded such an honor.”

…Well, if he _wanted_ to use this opportunity to cast doubt on one of Anora’s suitors, Theron supposed he _could._ It didn’t feel like a particularly good move, though.

“We are strong nation, and justly proud of our people and our endurance and our history,” Eamon continued. “Above all, we value our honor - our trustworthiness, our adherence to our oaths and promises, and the full and proper execution of our duties. Other countries may not give us the respect we deserve, and in most cases I would say: _‘Let them fall to their own misconceptions’_. But there are times in the matters of international diplomacy where we _must_ take into account those opinions.”

So who was it going to be?

“There are rumors circulating amongst the ranks of those who came to petition for bannorns - rumors not far from truth - and I can only hope that they have not written home of them, or that their servants are not gossips. I cannot imagine the damage it could cause, if what I have heard said was to spread more widely. Surely we are already suffering from the shocking attack on our Hero, and in his own household-”

It wasn’t _that_ much of a problem. It had been handled. And publicly.

“-and it pains me to say that I cannot find the topic of the rumors surprising, with this horrible deed. It was a Crow that did the deed and it has already, in fact, _caused_ diplomatic incident. As you all know, Prince Estefan of Antiva was told to leave for his own country earlier this week-”

Because that Crow had come from _him,_ people had updated Theron on this.

“-and I have learned why. It is understandable, and while I sincerely hope that there has been a mistake somehow, for this pains me to say-”

He hadn’t _actually_ said yet. Was he finally getting to the point?

“-that I must contest the favor shown to Zevran of House Arainai of the Antivan Crows, currently engaged to our own Warden-Commander, who is the willful murderer of Prince Estefan’s eldest daughter and well-known in the capital of his country as a courtesan, and an easily-had one at that.”

It took a good full minute for Theron’s brain to catch up, because this-

_This-_

“He is an assassin and a regicide - of more than Rinnala Estefanez, my Lords and Ladies, but also of at least one brother and sister of King Fulgendo- and a shameless, profligate harlot. For the safety of our beloved Queen and our honored Hero, whom I am certain has been cruelly deceived and to whom I offer my sincerest apologies to be the one to deliver this news-”

He couldn’t shout Eamon down. He couldn’t speak.

But he could slam his hands down on the table, and stand, and storm across the room to punch Eamon right in his _sodding mouth._


	10. Chapter 10

There was a certain awful inevitability to the scene.

Theron’s hands slamming down on the table as he rose, pushing the chair away. The dull thump as the blow vibrated down the table. The surprised, then shocked looks on the faces of the rest of the nobility at seeing Theron _angry._ The ripple of excitement as the Freemen and the servants realized they were about to witness a scene. The half-step back Eamon took as he saw the reaction his words had roused. Banns flinching away from Theron’s fury as he passed. Anora starting to rise from her throne as she saw what was about to happen.

The crack as Theron’s fist hit Eamon square in the mouth. The spurt of blood as Eamon’s nose broke and his lips split. The second crack as he reeled back from the blow, falling, and smacked his head on the table. He didn’t quite collapse to the floor, but it was a near thing- he fell, but caught his upper body on his chair.

Everyone sitting within three chairs of Eamon retreated, very quickly. It was helped by the way Fen shoved his way through the chair legs, snarling.

Alistair caught Anora’s eye as she finished rising from her throne, and they exchanged a look. It said: _here we are again._

“Arl Mahariel,” she said, voice ringing out through the room. “If you wish to seek restitution, it must be done through the proper channels.”

Theron crossed his arms and scowled up at her. The room was drawing away, a slight lean to everyone’s bodies as they realized what Alistair had known for years: calm Theron had a settled, quiet presence. Angry Theron took up about five times more space through sheer force of will and intensity of emotion.

“Do you wish to issue a challenge to a duel?” Anora asked.

Theron uncrossed one arm and emphatically pointed his hand at Eamon, who was clutching his face.

“Very well,” she said. “Shall you fight yourself, or declare a champion?”

Theron drew his sword. He was one of the few exercising the right of nobility to bear arms at the Landsmeet. Almost everyone vacated their seats and backed away from the tables.

Arl Mallory drew her own sword, slammed the pommel of it against the table in front of her, and let loose with a thundering Alamarri warcry, following up with a yell of: “ _Kovraig, kovraig!_ ”

Some of the spectators answered back with scattered calls of: “ _Kovraig_!” Issued and witnessed, in the Alamarri way- it was fight or forfeit honor and respect.

“That’s a _duel,_ Eamon, you dried-up old snake!” Mallory yelled gleefully. “Will you defend your own honor for once, or send one of your knights to do it?”

He pushed himself to his feet. Theron didn’t budge, so Arl Eamon had to stand away from his designated spot at the table.

“I am hardly the warrior the Commander is, Mallory,” he answered, still holding his face. “I’m an old man-”

“I’m older than you, you feckless coward!”

“Arl Mallory!” Anora said sternly. “Do you _also_ wish to issue a challenge to duel?”

“I’ll wait to decide until the Commander beats his sorry hide into the dust, my Queen. Depends on if he looks like his pride needs some more flaying.”

_“Arl Mallory.”_

“I declare my nephew as my champion,” Eamon said.

“Hey!” Alistair exclaimed, catching on. “Hey- no! No! I don’t agree! I won’t do it!”

“You would back down-”

“There is no honor in forcing a man to fight one he owes allegiance to,” Anora overruled him before he could finish. _Good._

“Then I would prevail upon my old friend and knight, Bann Per-”

“I will fight, brother,” Teagan volunteered himself, stepping forward. “There is no need to declare others without consulting them.”

“Then the duel is set,” Anora announced, and clapped her hands together once, sharply. “This Landsmeet is concluded. Arl Mahariel and Bann Teagan will duel over the accusations leveled by Arl Eamon upon the hour after lunch, in the square, with any who care to watch as witness.”

* * *

He had not been expecting to be turned away from the Landsmeet. Of course there was a question of legitimacy, but the Commander had signed and sealed written permission for the substitution, and Anora- the Queen had been informed.

But he was a Howe still. Nathaniel had gotten used to it meaning nothing, in the ranks of the Wardens and around the Vigil and the city of Amaranthine.

The Landsmeet remembered his father. Rendon had never really had friends, and while Nathaniel had been away in the Free Marches, he’d only made enemies. The _looks_ Bann Sighard and Arl Alfstanna had given him-

He’d just stay here, in the estate, in his room, until it was time for him to go back to Amaranthine.

Anders pushed the door open without knocking. That was fair, there were only so many extra rooms in the estate so the two of them were sharing.

But he had the new mages with him, so he should have _said_ something. He was the Constable! He should have been professional to greet them but _no,_ now they’d seen him flopped face-down on his bed!

“Anders-”

“Leontius has something to tell you,” his friend said, and looked pointedly at the mage in question, who quailed and looked around nervously.

“Anders-” Leontius started to plead.

Anders cut him off with sharp, insistent clapping.

“You have to do it, Amell! Darkspawn are worse than this!”

“I-”

“-am going to do this or I’m going to do it _for you!_ ”

Leontius folded in hands in front of himself and looked down at his feet. Neria edged closer to him.

“You ran away from the tower! You can do this!”

He shook his head mutely.

“Anders, what’s going on?” Nathaniel asked.

Anders sighed, the sound frustrated, and turned away from the new recruits.

“Leontius’s papers aren’t going to come back from Kinloch,” he told Nathaniel. “You’re going to get a polite _‘what?’_ because the only records they have are for _Solona_ Amell.”

Nathaniel had to sit on that a moment, because that was a bit odd. Changing names when running was something people did, of course, but this was a step further.

“But that’s-”

“ _He_ had more reasons than being a mage to run from the Circle!” Anders snapped, crowding the bed to glare down at him. “The Chantry calls it the _‘Tevinter perversion’_ but it’s _not!_ There’s _nothing_ wrong with him-”

“I didn’t say there was,” Nathaniel hastily interrupted. “I don’t get it, Anders, but I trust you and you know more about it and him than I do. I’ll send another letter to the Circle and explain that there was a- a clerical error or something.”

Anders had developed a new habit, in Kirkwall, of puffing up when he was angry. Nathaniel watched him deflate, and then turn back to Leontius and Neria.

“See? No problem, just like I said. Training now, come on, outside, I got Hawke to agree to help. You’re going to be Wardens, you have to know what to do about swords.”

It was good to see that Anders was taking his job as Captain seriously. He’d do a good job. Nathaniel was happy for him, and a little excited to see how the mages he trained would turn out. If there was one thing he’d learned from the years they’d thought Anders dead, it was that Anders was an exceptionally good mage. No one else they’d ever recruited had ever quite measured up.

Unfortunately, now he’d started working, even a little, he felt like he needed to keep _doing._ He put his boots back on and left the room. Getting some snacks from the kitchen let him check the time. The Landsmeet was likely to be over soon, if it wasn’t already. He could go wait for the Commander in the entrance hallway.

It didn’t look like Zevran had moved an inch since Nathaniel had last been in this room. That seemed a little much, but Nathaniel was well aware that he was in no position to judge people on the basis of how nervous they were.

The wait wasn’t long. Nathaniel had judged the time correctly, and the Commander stormed in- oh what had happened _now_ \- and caught Zevran up in a big hug.

“What happened?” Zevran asked, words muffled by Theron.

Alistair shuffled in place, nervous and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, glanced over at Nathaniel, and shut it again.

“It’s not… um,” he said after a moment, then took a deep breath and spit it all out, in El’vhen.

Nathaniel didn’t know that language, but Zevran flinched violently in the Commander’s hug. The Commander held him tighter and Nathaniel got a look at his expression. Rage was very unsettling look, on his face.

“Was it Kirkwall?” he asked quietly.

Alistair’s answer was: “No,” which was very good but not that much of a relief. They wouldn’t have to discuss blood magic, at least-

“It’s more personal,” Alistair continued. “Theron- _well,_ Redcliffe might hate us. A little. I’d say _‘sorry’_ , but-”

He looked at Zevran.

“I can’t believe he did that,” he said, so quiet and distressed that Nathaniel was pretty sure he hadn’t meant to say it.

“Why might Arl Eamon hate us?” Nathaniel asked, dreading the answer.

“Theron punched him right in the face in front of the whole Landsmeet. He’s dueling Teagan after lunch.”

Well, wasn’t that just _typical._

Nathaniel went to go lie back down before things got any worse.

* * *

Grief weighed the limbs and fogged the mind. Guilt tangled up the threads of thought, turning everything round and round until everything came back to what you’d done. Fear was sharp, most often like the sting of a whip but sometimes paralyzing.

This feeling, the shriveling at the corners of his heart and soul, sensation of filth under his skin, the want to curl up in the dark and dissolve away- he didn’t know what it was.

 Zevran would have preferred never to experience it. It turned Theron’s arms around him into just a reminder that once, things had been different. The safety and comfort of it was stolen.

Out there, somewhere, in the city, who knew how many people were talking about him. Gossiping. Saying whatever they pleased about his past. He could _see_ the tittering, the solemn looks, disgusted faces, the grave nods as the information spread and people said to each other: _‘how unsuitable, what a scandal, this can’t stand! A whore and a murderer, it isn’t right-’_

The speculation. Everyone knew what happened with rumors. What were they saying now? How many people were-

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Zevran knew he should go to the duel with Theron. He should take his knives and wear something flattering almost to the point of indecency and he should saunter and smile and laugh and wink and show everyone it didn’t matter. He had a kind, compassionate, handsome man who wanted to marry him _right over there_ , dueling for his honor. What were _words_ from people who knew nothing? Nothing, because he was untouchable.

 But they knew. Everyone knew. It would have to be juicy gossip, the best scandal, perfectly preceded by Salvail’s attack and death and Prince Estefan’s sudden departure from Denerim. They _knew._ He wasn’t Zevran Revasina any longer, he’d go out there and he’d be something to stare at, to whisper about behind hands, to give _looks._

He would have to attend court with these people. Go to their estates. Speak to them at parties, look in their eyes and know they were thinking about what they’d heard, what he’d done, imagining it, wondering if it could happen again, if it could be them, making laden remarks, sly looks, coy touches-

There were strokes up and down his back and his chest seized, his heart raced, he couldn’t breathe, skin going blazing hot as everything inside froze. He was nothing-

He pushed away but he was still bleeding into them, swirling, _he_ didn’t exist there was just what they wanted what they fantasized about what they were going to do and take and this was it, this was it, this was all it ever was-

The air was close and full of the scent of candles and flowers and expensive perfume. That rustling was silk and delicate linen, slippers on polished floors, gauzy curtains fluttering in the open glass doors facing gardens and terraces and porches. The chink of glasses on the handles of fans, against tables and trays. Light shining on burnished brass and glass, glimmering on silver and gold and gemstones, glowing on silk and warm skin and oiled hair.

_“Zevran-”_

Murmuring in Antivan. High-class laughter. Whispers. Sideways looks. Hands, fingers trailing, toying with cuffs necklines laces-

Zevran tripped and fell on the top of the stairs and the brief burst of pain separated him from the spectre of every society party in Antiva City he’d been sent to just enough for him to notice the hallway in the Denerim estate, distant and thin and dull, unreal behind the memory of- of-

A door opened. It was the creak of a thousand darkened bedrooms in city villas and of his mother and Tanis’s room all at once, and his mother and Tanis-

Tanis’s face jumped from distant to immediate in one dizzying moment, sharpening and shifting and she was looking down at him, crying sparse silent tears because she couldn’t ruin her makeup for the night and she was very tall and there was a room, down the hall, in the back, and there was someone waiting for him, a stranger, some adult he’d never seen, because-

* * *

She walked into the sound of screaming, and Leliana hiked the skirt of her robes and ran towards it. It was at the top of the stairs and this was a busy area, but servants and Wardens gave way at the sight of a Sister, and she had gotten close enough to stand next to Oghren- Oghren was in Denerim?- when the screaming stopped.

Zevran was curled in on himself, pressed against the wall, making little scared noises and trembling. Theron was sitting, sprawled back like he’d been startled out of a crouch, expression more terrified than she’d ever seen him.

“What happened?” she asked, and Oghren looked up.

“Dunno,” he said. “Just got here myself. Didn’t know you were in town.”

His breath didn’t smell of alcohol any longer, and the only thing _he_ smelled of was honest exercise. He seemed… groomed, and alert. What had-

Leliana reminded herself that she’d already made assumptions about her old companions once this trip, and there was no call to go making more.

“I didn’t know you were coming, either,” she replied. “You seem better than you were last we met, Oghren. It is good to see.”

“Heh,” he snorted, put almost sounded a bit pleased. “Yeah, I got myself sorted. You hear about my Thrune- ah, this ain’t the time. Somethin’ up?”

“I heard what people were saying about Zevran, and I thought I should come be a friend…”

Her eyes drifted back towards Zevran. Theron was hovering awkwardly, reaching out but not touching him. Alistair was trying to coax Theron off the floor, and Morrigan was glaring at anyone who looked like they might come closer. Her golden eyes flicked towards them, and she and Oghren caught each other’s gaze.

“Right,” Oghren said suddenly, and smacked his hands together. “Move it, go on! Nothin’ to see here! You, Tabris, Brant, clear ‘em out, this is private business.”

The tall Ander Warden and two elven women moved to send the servants and Wardens back where they’d come. The elves seemed mixed up in each other for a moment, but then the dark-haired one in armor stepped back, leaving the redhead in the- oh, that was the _Housekeeper’s_ uniform!- to usher everyone away.

Oghren turned back to her.

“What are they sayin’? Can’t be good if you came right over here.”

“Rumors about Antiva,” Leliana told him. “About his… conquests, chiefly. Every noble and merchant of the slightest importance. There are wagging tongues about the scandal of it all. The Hero’s fiancé the seducer-”

Which was when she’d come here, because Alistair had told her in the Grand Chantry not so many days ago that Zevran was a reformed character, and Andraste forbid that _she_ be one to smear another for a past they had repented of. Alistair and Theron thought he was a better person, and she could hardly do different. She had to make up for what she’d thought of him earlier.

“ _‘Conquests’?”_ Morrigan hissed unexpectedly, turning on them in outrage. “ _‘Seducer’?_ ‘Twill be _many_ a tongue-”

“Leliana!” Alistair said, noticing her and butting in worriedly. “Is it- could you do something for him?”

“I hardly know what’s happened-”

“Theron and I came back from the Landsmeet and I told him what had been said and then a minute later, he was all-”

He gestured helplessly at Zevran, still on the floor.

There was a quiet _“oh,”_ from close by. Leliana and the others looked over- it was the elven woman in the armor.

“What’s that _‘oh’_ for, Tabris?” Oghren asked.

“It’s-”

She shifted uncomfortably.

“Sometimes when you remember things,” she said. “Really awful things, that happened to you. That you saw. You remember it all at once and you forget it’s not happening _right now._ ”

Oghren grunted in understanding.

“Roads madness,” he said. “Didn’t think that was somethin’ anybody who didn’t survive darkspawn got. We need some real gutrot brew to shove under his nose.”

“It’s not darkspawn,” Tabris said. “It’s shem fear. You have to wait it out and keep going.”

“ _‘Shem fear’_?”Alistair asked.

Leliana watched her eyes dart around for a few moments before Tabris settled again- on _her,_ and not on Alistair- to answer the question.

“It’s not other elves who see the chambermaid or the stable-mucker or some kid in the market, decide that _their_ lust is the only thing that matters, and call it _‘seduction’_.”

It took a moment. Tabris was gone by the time it sunk in. Leliana had been- was a- bard, and she moved in dark circles in the name of the light. She _knew_ that rape happened, and she knew that it happened to elves most of all.

But it was- well, it was something that happened to _other people._ To quiet, timid elves who lived in alienages and worked in noble houses. Not to loud elves, armed elves, deadly elves. _Zevran-_

But people didn’t whimper in terror and cower when remembering sexual conquests sealed by seductive confidence and suaveness.

“I can’t believe,” Alistair said, and Leliana was about to agree with him. It was inconceivable. It was- _awful,_ and to have happened to someone she knew- “I can’t believe he _said that._ ”

Oghren started swearing in a furious mutter. What it lacked it creativity, it made up for in sincerity.

Leliana was about to ask Alistair: _“Who said what?”_ when he turned to Morrigan.

“You knew,” he said.

Morrigan crossed her arms.

“He told me in Antiva,” she said. “He wanted my advice on how to tell Theron secrets kept.”

“It wasn’t-?” Alistair started, and then swore. “ _Shit._ So he’s barely- that day, when they were being weird around each other-”

“Yes.”

“Oh Maker. He told him- the same night they got _betrothed._ ”

“Yes.”

Alistair’s expression was going slowly horrified. Leliana didn’t know the exact thoughts behind it, but this situation was bad enough.

“And- _he said-_ ”

“Who said?” she got to ask this time.

“Eamon,” Alistair said bleakly. “Arl Eamon. He brought up the rumors at the Landsmeet, and Theron went right for him, punched him straight to the floor. I thought- I knew it wasn’t a good way to bring up a concern and with the way Theron was all winter- at least he didn’t go for his _sword_ first-”

They all hushed as the noise changed. Zevran had been whimpering, but now there had been a breathy edge there, a moment ago.

Leliana looked around Alistair to see Zevran push Theron away again. He was sitting now, back against the wall and knees drawn up, hands curled in front of his face.

“ _Ma’len-_ ”

“ _Mamae_ ,” Zevran said brokenly, ignoring him. “ _Mamae-_ ”

An older Dalish woman edged over and gingerly sat down next to him. He curled into her immediately, and she wrapped her arms around him to hold him close.

Alistair went to coax Theron off the floor, leaving the rest of them standing there. While Oghren and Morrigan watched the scene, Leliana stared blankly at the wall, remembering Eamon and his wife- his _Orlesian_ wife.

The Game played with a heavy hand could be far more damaging than the Game played in subtlety and secrecy.

* * *

He hated what had been done to Zevran.

He hated what Eamon had said.

He hated not being able to help.

He hated-

Theron’s hate drove him through leaving Zevran to his mother, gathering his armor, strapping on sword and shield, and going to the duel. He was trailed by Alistair and Leliana and Oghren and Morrigan, with Nathaniel in the back, uneasy but present, sticking to Anders’ side and on high alert.

The crowd that had gathered was large, far larger than the number of people who had been sitting in on the Landsmeet.

Good. Let them all see what happened when someone _dared_ hurt his _sal’shiral_.

He found Eamon on the edge of the gathered crowd and watched him. Him and Isolde. Standing there, Isolde fussing over his bruised and battered face, Eamon not looking apologetic or regretful in the least.

How dare he.

_How dare he-_

“Arl Mahariel? I want t-”

Theron looked at Teagan, who’d come over to them, and the Bann stopped dead.

Alistair leaned in.

“Your eyes are going all Warden-y,” he said quietly in El’vhen.

The part of the Joining people got hung up on was the darkspawn blood, but that wasn’t what made a Warden. Anyone could contract the Taint, and no matter if someone could have survived the Joining or not, pure Taint would kill. It was the Archdemon blood and the lyrium that made a Warden. Alistair had brought back the explanation of how the Joining worked from Weisshaupt, a final Warden secret they’d learned too late.

Darkspawn blood for the Taint, for the strength and stamina and durability it provided. Archdemon blood for the sensing of Taint, in darkspawn and Blight animals and ghouls and the land. Lyrium to bind it, to hold it at bay with the strength of your soul and put it at the direction of the conscious thinking mind, as much as you could. It was the lyrium that made the cold icy feeling inside, the lyrium that gave the darkspawn dreams, the lyrium that could cause instant death at the Joining, when it drew on the soul’s strength to counteract the Tainted blood- too much or too little, no one was sure, but that mattered less than the death itself.

And it was the lyrium that made Warden eyes, a phenomenon that was, most times, easily overlooked. When there was Taint close enough to sense, the irises of a Warden would shine piercing, unworldly bright white-blue, like pools of liquid lyrium. This was the common form, a relatively normal part of being a Warden that even the newest recruits exhibited.

It took older Wardens, more exposed to the Taint, to develop the less common form. The full white-blue glow, with the candlesmoke mist of lyrium in air, as thick as breaths in mountain cold. He and Alistair hadn’t gotten so far during the Blight despite the sheer numbers of darkspawn and their trip into the Roads and the stress of the year- but Alistair had said that Theron’s eyes had done it, killing the Archdemon; and then reported that it had happened to him the first time he’d gone out with other Wardens in the Anderfels.

It had only happened to them once or twice each again after that- and until today only against darkspawn. It _was_ something that could happen when senior Wardens got particularly incensed, but that was Wardens of ten or fifteen years.

In another time, Theron might have been worried, being only five years Joined. But he was furious, and Zevran was hurting, and he was supposed to be _untouchable, safe, protected-_

Something hit him in the side of his waist and he had a visceral flash of wanting to tear Oghren’s head off with his _teeth._

“Yeah, you’ve found your rage,” Oghren said, giving him a long look when he turned on him. “After this, you and me, out in the practice grounds. You’re gonna learn how to harness this and go berserk, or you’re gonna learn how to calm down so some nughumper doesn’t make a comment about him and then get in a stupid soddin’ lucky blow.”

“Is he all right?” Theron heard Teagan ask Alistair in a nervous undertone.

“I mean, he’s really, _really_ angry,” Alistair answered. “But the blue eyes is just a Warden thing. Happens sometimes.”

“I just wanted to say- my brother was wrong in how he went about this, and I don’t agree with him. But I couldn’t let him simply appoint someone, so I had to step up. I wanted to make sure he knew.”

He wanted to be facing Eamon here. Eamon had said those things, he’d-

Teagan. Teagan was here right now.

Theron turned from Oghren and nodded to him. Teagan seemed relieved.

“Thank you, Arl-Commander. Best of luck to you. Your arbiter?”

His _what._

He glanced over at Alistair, who looked confused for a moment, then nervous.

“Uh-”

Nathaniel stepped forward unexpectedly.

“If you would have me, Your Lordship.”

At least Bann Teagan seemed as surprised as he and Alistair were.

“Nat- well, yes, I suppose you’re a reasonably neutral choice,” he said. “Not that I was concerned. You’re an honorable man, Arl-Commander. I’ll leave you to the final preparations.”

He turned and went back to his brother. There was a servant there, ready to hand him his shield and helmet.

“Nate, what’s an arbiter?” Alistair asked.

“The one who starts and ends the duel,” Nathaniel said. “And keeps watch during to ensure the rules are kept. You didn’t-?”

“Templars aren’t supposed to duel, and who was going to challenge a Warden after, y’know.”

“And… final preparations?”

“Traditionally, any amendments you want to make to your will. Or last wishes- blessings from a Sister, if one’s around.”

He wasn’t taking a blessing from Leliana.

“These days, it’s mostly for checking your armor.”

His armor didn’t need to be checked. He needed to have this duel started and finished, so he could go back to the estate and make sure Zevran was all right, and get him to explain what exactly was wrong so they could _fix it._

Zevran _needed him_ and he was angry, so _angry-_

Teagan turned, Rainesfere’s blue-gray cat on the lighter gray field of his shield, his helmet slightly pointed and open-faced in the manner of Fereldan knights. He started into the clear space in front of the crowd, and Nathaniel gave Theron a look over his shoulder as he, too, stepped up, taking careful, measured strides across the space, pacing out the dueling ground.

Theron pulled his own helmet on. Most of his Wardens preferred the Fereldan style, as Alistair did; or the traditional half-visor of Warden plate, for those who came from other countries.

He’d favored full-face helmets made in the influence of the Legion of the Dead, since… after. Through the Blight he’d happily used whatever helmets they’d scrounged, but then, in Fort Drakon-

It had been years, but they’d tried to tear his vallas’lin off, and done enough damage that Zevran had had to take ink and needle to it in the dead of night, after the rescue, so Theron could face the world again. Ever since, he’d felt safer with his oaths secured behind heavy steel or silverite.

 _“Destroy him,”_ Morrigan hissed quietly from behind him.

Theron stepped out into the clear area. His breath deflected back on him where it hit the silverite of his helmet, warm and thick and familiar, as Nathaniel paced out the length of dueling ground again. He and Teagan chose their places and started getting settled. There was a faint shine on the inside of his helmet, a minor distraction, that let Theron know the Warden eyes had come in completely. Teagan watched him in slight trepidation as he settled into his stance, a wide-legged slight crouch, dragonbone shield in raised in front of him where he could just look over the top and the point of the old El’vhen straight sword Zevran had gifted him in Antiva held parallel to the ground, tip protruding just past the edge of his shield.

The crowd was silent as Teagan chose his stance, a much more traditional easy stand at rest, a good position to move into attack or defense from.

Nathaniel stepped in between them.

“Shall yae duel to first blood or first down?” he asked, in the tone of a ritual phrase.

“I think blood might be difficult in this instance, Warden Howe,” Teagan said. It was an attempt at levity. It failed.

“Then to the first of yae to yield or be stricken to the Fade be the defeat,” Nathaniel said, and took three large, quick steps back.

So this was it.

Theron knew his strength in battle, and his speed. He had to go home, to Zevran. Zevran needed him. Teagan was only here to spare anyone being forced to fight for his brother’s- his brother’s-

His opening move against any opponent was to ram them with his shield. Teagan was no darkspawn and saw what was coming. He twisted to the side but Theron was no darkspawn either and his shield clipped Teagan, the force behind it enough to send him stumbling back. A crack in the stone made him trip; he fell and rolled back to his feet, countering Theron’s next ramming attempt with a bash of his own shield to deflect the dense plane of dragonbone. Teagan’s sword came down towards Theron’s neck and he ignored it entirely, not bothering to block. This was _his_ armor, made for _his_ rank and _his_ favored tactics. The silverite plates were thick, carefully jointed and fitted by Wade to take blows like this. Theron was a front-lines fighter and always had been, and the more experience he’d gained the better he’d gotten at taking hits. In battle, he _charged_ into clusters of darkspawn, breaking through ranks in fights against groups in the Roads to knock emissaries off their feet and stop their casting, or hamstring ogres, or engage genlock and hurlock alphas and kill them before they could call to their kin and bring to bear what coordination darkspawn had without an archdemon behind them. Those of lesser strength would mob him, and he had to be free to ignore them until he finished with his selected target.

When he was armored like this, his armor was his defense more than his shield, and his shield just as much a weapon as his sword. Theron took Teagan’s hit at his neck, the man’s sword skittering straight off the plate, and thrust his own sword at an armor joint on his side. It sliced through skin in a singing slide of metal on metal and the edge of Theron’s sword came away bloody.

Too easy.

Teagan jolted back, surprised, and there was a murmur from the crowd as droplets flicked from Theron’s blade as he sank down into a modified version of his starting position, sword tip held over the top of the shield now. Good for deflecting, good for ramming. Teagan spared a moment to examine the stance and then came in for a side swing at his left side. Theron ignored this strike too, letting his armor take it, and struck out at the same time with his sword. It was a feint, after a fashion- his starting position had been overhand, and Teagan reacted to the threat to his shield arm by bringing his shield up to block.

All Theron had really needed was for him to move his shield. There was space now to lunge forward, and up-

There was a resounding _crack_ as Teagan’s head snapped back, entirely bearing his throat and the angry red line the top edge of Theron’s shield had left imprinted into the soft skin under his chin. He collapsed immediately, making pained choking sounds. His helmet flew off, clanking against the stone and rolling away.

Theron waited a few moments. Teagan was prone, but not unconscious. He could put a foot on his chest, or place the point of his sword against his neck, and ask him to yield.

But he’d gone back to the estate, and held Zevran, and felt him flinch in his arms when Alistair told him what Eamon had said and what everyone else was saying about him. He’d heard Zevran start to breathe too heavy and too fast, felt the ache of the loss of warmth against him when he’d twisted out of his hug and run. He’d sat there in the hallway by the top of those _damned stairs_ where everything always seemed to go wrong and tried to comfort his love and Zevran had _screamed_ in fear and denial at his touch and he hadn’t been able to _speak_ to ask him what was wrong, to calm him down, to tell him he was loved and safe maybe it was _right_ that he hadn’t been able to because that last was a _lie,_ his _sal’shiral_ was _supposed_ to be safe here but he _wasn’t_ and Theron had to _make him safe._

So he waited until Teagan fumbled his way to his hands and knees, hastily trying to get back into the fight on trained instinct not to stay prone and vulnerable, and _then_ Theron slammed the hilt of his sword into the back of Teagan’s head.

Teagan fell face-first into the square, unconscious.

It had been an easy fight, a quick fight- an _unsatisfying_ fight. On the edge of the crowd, Eamon was frowning behind his beard, and Isolde had gasped in shock and dismay as Teagan fell.

Eamon was the one who had said those things to his face. But how many people were saying them behind closed doors? In the privacy of their homes or rented rooms? Around the servants? In the streets, in the taverns, in the kitchens- anywhere he _wasn’t,_ where he couldn’t _stop it._

How many of the people _here_ were hurting Zevran?

He’d pulled the rage back when Teagan had spoken to him but it roared forward now. Zevran was back at the estate, Zevran had been hurt, Zevran needed him, Zevran had trusted him and he’d _failed,_ the sanctuary Ferelden was to be for him had been breached, the limits he’d set on his past violated, and it wasn’t going to _stop,_ not unless _he_ stopped it, not unless no one would _dare_ touch Zevran, if not for the respect and care he _deserved_ than for the fear that _he_ would put into all of them of his wrath, these _shems_ who had _no right_ to _anything_ of Zevran, who didn’t know his smiles or his sorrows or his sweetness.

He was supposed to rest his voice, but:

“Zevran Revasina is a hero of Blight as much as any of us.”

His voice was awful and scratchy as he swept his sword out to point to Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan, and Oghren. The muscles of his throat clenched in warning and pain sparked down through his shoulder- he ignored it.

“He stood at the gates of this city and defended it from the hordes. He risked contracting the Taint to save this country and keep the Fifth Blight from engulfing the world-”

The scratch in his throat went dry and burning, and he could only wheeze on his next breath; and then cough, and cough. Nathaniel and Anders, who’d come to wake Teagan and carry him off the field, gave him worried looks.

“Comman-” Anders started to say.

Theron snapped out a hand to stop him, and tried to breath properly.

“Zevran-” he finally managed to say. “-Revasina-”

Another cough, and his throat felt clear again, for the moment.

“-traveled to the Temple of Sacred Ashes with me,” Theron said, fixing Eamon with a look. “He passed the tests of the Gauntlet and was found worthy to be in the presence of Andraste’s mortal remains. Close enough to _touch._ ”

He wasn’t Andrastean, but he could appreciate how important the ashes were.

And because he wasn’t Andrastean, he was more than willing to exploit them.

He let _‘so who are you to judge him wanting’_ hang unspoken over the crowd.

“He has endured more, survived more, than _any_ of you _ever_ will. He had the _strength_ to walk away from the Crows and he walked away a _good_ and _caring_ and _loving_ man and _I will not stand_ for _anyone_ slandering him. He will be my husband, and he will be High Lord of Amaranthine, and you will _respect him._ ”

* * *

He had grown up with the old statues of the Dales dotting Emprise- the wolves of Fen’harel, broken and partially smashed Evanuris in hidden corners and atop inaccessible crags, Emerald Knights and el’vhen warriors keeping watch and standing ready. He’d always wondered what they’d look like if they moved, in their draping robes and armor, and the curves of their swords.

Now- _now_ Rosaire knew. The Hero didn’t carry one of the curved Dalish swords and his armor had little in the way of the flowing lines of the statues, but the way he _moved_ echoed it, spoke of a foundational training in a form different to any knight or chevalier he’d ever seen. His own taste for fighting clearly ran towards overpowering, but the moment in his first bout when he’d resettled his stance had been a thing of pure beauty, one fluid movement perfectly resolved with the easy grace of the arc of his blade as he’d flipped it over in his hand to resettled into his new grip.

 _‘Hero’_ indeed. He wasn’t very good at poetry, but now he had that _urge_ again, because that had been _amazing-_

“That was terrifying,” Maxwell said, and Rosaire realized he’d said that last out loud. “I could make a fortune betting on him in the Grand Tourney. He must be a nightmare on the battlefield.”

Even after Bann Teagan had received healing and been escorted off the field, there had been those who’d taken the Hero up on his challenge. Prince Baldewin had stepped up immediately, given a short spiel about his usual Wardens in politics complaints, and proceeded to get beaten into the ground by the Hero. Prince Baldewin had held out longer than the Bann, but it wasn’t saying much. The second challenger was Bann Cauthrien, and Rosaire wasn’t stupid enough to have not seen that there were politics involved somehow, but he wasn’t sure exactly _what._ That one had lasted the length of a real bout, seemingly more from the Bann’s stubbornness rather than her martial skill.

The third challenger had been the real surprise- Reynaud Dufort, who’d casually told the Hero that he had no issue with his choice in husband and no particular care for the gossip, but that if he was going to get anything out of a spring away from Val Royeaux, fighting the man who’d killed the Archdemon would be a good story.

Reynaud had been quick on his feet, as befitted a chevalier and a duelist. The Hero wasn’t faster but he also wasn’t fooled by fancy footwork and feigned attacks. Doubtless he sparred against his fiancé. Reynaud had lost with grace, and thanked him for the story as he’d been carried away, covered in forming bruises and paying ginger attention to his smashed but magically-healed foot and shoulder. He’d be laid up in his quarters for a while.

No one else had stepped forward to answer the Hero’s challenge, after that.

“I wonder what he meant when he talked about enduring more than any of us ever will,” Maxwell mused, as the crowd started to break up. “And the strength to walk away from the Crows.”

Emprise du Lion was an old marquisate, large in size and prestige and rich off it’s mines and ice. It was rural and not the most accessible of places. The winters were long in the Frostbacks- but fortunately for him, Rosaire had always been a curious one, and Orlesian gold made books cheap.

He knew things.

“Some people say the Crows use Qunari torture methods to keep their assassins in line. Others say they must use something better, because there are plenty of Tal-vashoth around, but since when has there been an ex-Crow? Prevailing opinion is blood magic.”

“Blood magic?”

“There was a famous Guildmaster who was a known blood mage. There’s a rumor that that’s how the Crows supposedly know everything, and are so good at killing difficult marks. They have demonic help, in spying through the Fade and knowing the past, present, and future.”

“You know a lot about this sort of thing, then?” Maxwell asked.

“My father wanted me to be a bard,” Rosaire told him. “I want to go to Arleans and study at the University of Orlais. To make him happy I studied the bards a bit, just in case maybe I _would_ enjoy it. The best work on the subject is a three-volume autobiography of Renette la Doujer. She had a very busy life, knew all kinds of people, got all kinds of places. She talks frankly about what being a bard is like and compares a bard’s work to the Antivan Crows, the House of Repose, and other underhanded mercenary organizations. It’s a very rare book, actually, but it has such good information on methods and means of hired deceit and death from Orlais to Tevinter. She was very passionate about her work. Not a nice woman! But wonderful documentation.”

“You have hidden depths, Lord Desroschers,” Maxwell said.

“No, I just really like knowing things.”

Maxwell gestured for them to start walking, and they proceeded away from the dueling area.

“Are you one of those sorts of noble scholars who always knows who has the best library, no matter where you go?”

“Ferelden has never been much for libraries, and with the Blight, it’s hard to say what’s survived,” Rosaire said, with a pang of longing and sorrow for the possibility of ruined private collections. “Fereldan nobility have never been big readers.”

“But they _can_ read. Surely someone has at least a small private collection. My parents have five hundred or so of note in their private collection, being avid readers themselves, and we’re the caretakers of the family collection. About ten thousand volumes all told, mostly copies of the Chant and devotionals and biographies of important officials and the like.”

He’d never seen ten thousand books all in one place. It sounded wonderful. There were only three hundred and fifty-nine in Emprise’s library. He’d counted. More than once.

“The Couslands were known to have two or three thousand books in their library,” Rosaire said sadly. “But I’ve heard most were burned or lost during the civil war. A number of Banns had very small collections of very old, very good manuscripts, but the Blight…”

It was a tragedy. It really was.

“Have you asked the Queen if she has a private library?” Maxwell asked. “Or the Hero? He seems like the sort to like books. You should ask him about it.”

Rosaire would. The Hero had agreed to talk to him about the Dalish- it would be easy enough to ask about this, as well.

* * *

The challenge in Hallarenis’haminathe had been bad enough. It had been politics, but at least it had been _Dalish_ politics.

This had been Fereldan politics, and if his response to _all_ politics was going to be issuing challenges to duels-

Well, good thing they were in Ferelden.

But he couldn’t care about that right now. Nathaniel and Anders had Theron in hand, scolding him for speaking when he wasn’t supposed to. Theron was making loud gestures and facial expressions that expounded upon his opinions on not talking, and how quickly he expected this condition to be fixed. Doubtless Theron would have Merrill and Bethany and Iro in some room with him and Anders soon, to force more healing.

That meant Zevran was left to him, for the time being.

“Do we have,” he asked in the kitchen. “Some really fancy, good-tasting wine? Or, uh, brandy?”

The kitchens eventually, after some discussion, provided him with an old bottle of Tevene peach brandy. Alistair took two glasses and went in search of Zevran.

He was in his and Theron’s room, wrapped in blankets on the bed. His _‘come in’_ when Alistair knocked was muffled, and exhausted.

“I brought brandy,” Alistair said, sitting down on the bed. “I, uh- I already knew Arl Eamon was being _really_ inconsiderate, but- well. Kallian said. Some things. About the rumors Leliana said _she_ heard, and-”

There was really not a good way to ask this.

“-wellshethinksmaybeyougotraped and I mean, yes or no, you’re still really-”

“Yes,” Zevran interrupted.

He’d had the wind knocked out of him before. This was like that, but accompanied by a sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh.”

“Often,” Zevran said, and sat up. The blankets twisted around him, and he’d huddled so far in them that they hooded over his face. “In the Crows. And before. It was my job, my entire life. That and killing.”

Alistair put one of the glasses down and filled the other with brandy. He drained it quickly, and Zevran slid a hand out from the blanket wrappings to pick up the other and hold it out. Alistair filled both.

“So. The… seduction-”

“Oh, it would have been. But it is not a seduction when your choice is _‘go have sex when we tell you or we will do it to you anyway and then kill you slowly’_.”

“Oh,” Alistair replied dumbly, and drained his second glass. His hand trembled filling it a third time, but he didn’t spill any. “That’s- that’s really bad.”

And that had been a _stupid_ thing to say. He swallowed a gulp of the brandy.

Zevran’s _“yes”_ was pure dry amusement. Was that good.

Alistair had a thought. He felt guilty and wrong just thinking it; but it had been thought and now he had to be sure.

“You and Theron, are you-”

Zevran looked up, and Alistair could see his face now. He was tired and worn from crying, eyes red and drooping, hair messed.

“He is very good to me,” he said quietly, and leaned forwards until his forehead was resting against Alistair’s shoulder. “Thank you for asking.”

How could he have _thought_ that?

“Good! I’d beat him up, I’ve seen him fight but I could take him, and anyway I’d _have_ to, because I couldn’t let him near you again if he- I mean, not that he _would,_ he’s a good person, he’s got to be one of the best people I’ve ever met, he just cares so much and he’s kind, and he always wants to help and you know he’s always really sincere about it, and he can get possessive and it’s annoying but it also seems kind of nice? He cares _so much_ that he’ll do everything he can to keep somebody safe and happy. And his honor! His piety! You know, when I figured out he was religious I was expecting to be annoyed, it was another thing about Templar training I didn’t like, but it just _works_ for him? He’s devoted to his people and to his gods and to his Wardens and to everyone he cares about and that’s where he rests his honor and it’s a really good place to do that, I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but it’s a really _honest_ sort of way to live, with love and compassion, and he really _lives_ it, I had a home with the Wardens I hadn’t before, and purpose, but even with Duncan, _he_ knew about my father and the other Wardens didn’t but they knew that I was Duncan’s personal junior Warden and I was a part of it but I didn’t really feel _accepted,_ or at least I thought I did but then I met Theron and he just genuinely _likes_ me, and that’s so _amazing_ , do you know how long I spent thinking no one would ever like me or really want me? And then all of a sudden here’s this Dalish elf, thinks I’m a good friend and a competent person and just- _likes me_ and Zev, you’re really lucky to have him, there must be-”

Zevran sat back up and looked at him.

“-plenty of other people who- want- what?”

Alistair nervously swallowed another mouthful of brandy.

“What did I say?”

“You love him,” Zevran said.

“Uh- he’s my friend?”

“Yes, he certainly is.”

“…there’s a _‘but’_ there.”

“No, no, my dear friend, there are _two_ of them. A very fine pair. One on yourself, and-”

“No!” Alistair said, very loudly. “No! No, I see where this is going! No! Not like that!”

“I am not convinced.”

“He’s- he’s- you two! The two of you! Getting- married! Husbands! Married couple! No!”

“That hardly keeps your heart from going where it will.”

“It hasn’t!”

“Are you quite sure?” Zevran asked, and _yes, he was._ “I was not the only one who went searching for him after the burning of Amaranthine. You have lived on top of a terrible cold mountain to staff Soldier’s Peak-”

“That’s my _job-_ ”

“-and you write very many letters about how well it is going and how terrible things are in that joking way of yours-”

“And what’s the use if you can’t find humor in it?”

“-and you left your morals behind for him,” Zevran said, suddenly turning to serious matters. “You agreed to the magic in Kirkwall to save me because you knew what it would do to him if I died. You stayed with him when I did not; and I may still not know all that occurred while I was away but I know you were there with him, Alistair, and doing all you could to keep him well. You have known him for six years now, and in all those six years I have yet to hear you express an interest in anyone.”

“Well maybe I’m waiting for the right person!”

“And what _would_ your sort of person be?”

“Appreciates my jokes, and- and likes me, and isn’t weird about the Warden thing, and kind, and welcoming, and-”

There was more, he was sure there was more.

“And all those things you extolled about Theron.”

“I’m not in love with him!”

“And how does it feel when he kisses you?”

The first time Theron had gotten drunk around the rest of them, they’d just cleared Soldier’s Peak and had settled in to camp, as it were, in the fortress. They’d used the central gathering hall, with the large fireplace and the hanging painting, spreading out bedrolls and tent canvas to keep the chill from the stone off as much as possible. Old broken crates and benches had been their fuel to bring the fire up to a blazing heat, almost too big for the hearth, once dinner had been cooked. Levi Dryden had offered everyone wine in celebration of the Peak being cleared, and everyone had drunk.

Oghren had been the same as usual, to no one’s surprise, and hadn’t even seemed to notice that he’d been provided with something that wasn’t ale or beer. He’d had to confiscate Leliana’s knives and bow because she’d decided to prove her marksmanship and nearly skewered Morrigan in her attempt to impress. Morrigan hadn’t seemed particularly bothered by it, which was the weird thing. She’d just laughed and slung an arm around Leliana’s shoulders when she’d started grumping about her weapons being taken and started playing with her red hair in apparent fascination.

Zevran had drunk enough to go boneless and divested himself of armor, shoes, and loosened his shirt and pants in a worrying manner. Alistair had always had a high tolerance for alcohol, as a rule, and had been trying to keep one eye on Morrigan and Leliana and another on Zevran, flopped languidly by the fire, convinced that someone was going to start a catastrophe, when Theron had kissed him for the first time.

He'd been cherry-sweet from the wine and smoky from the fire, warm as sunlight and thrill-edge of an unexpected fight you knew you would win. It had been brief enough, and Theron had pressed closer to him afterwards, all legs and arms, and mumbled about how great he was until he started crying. Alistair had held him in his lap and patted him on the back and tried to tell him, yes, he knew Theron liked him, it was all right.

Alistair hadn’t thought about that in a while. The second time Theron had kissed him, it had been after the Archdemon. They’d been drunk on surprise and relief and victory and not alcohol. It had been sharp and metallic with blood, spiced with salt from a few tears, and Theron had broken it after a few seconds to rest their foreheads together and just breathe. Alistair had urged him away after, to go see his mother and Zevran.

The third time had been the night before he’d left for the Anderfels, and-

“You’re blushing,” Zevran said.

“It’s _embarrassing!_ ” Alistair insisted, and wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t. It had never been. It just… was something that was. It was just part of Theron, and he liked Theron.

“And if he came to you sober?” Zevran asked, serious and low. “In the night, in the firelight? If he looked at you with his sweet smile and reached to touch you-”

-the leather of his glove sliding over his cheek, the fire gilding one side of his face in light that illuminated the warm tones in the brown of his skin and throwing shadow across the other, on the side of the hand that would reach for his left and hold it, twining their fingers lightly until his grip tightened to hold their palms gently together, the hand on his cheek continuing into his hair and around the back of his head- Alistair’s arm around Theron’s waist, and Theron’s around his head, Alistair’s free hand on Theron’s ribs and Theron’s on the small of his back, gentle pressure and shared breath and honey and cinnamon this time, woodsmoke and rich earth, cool night and warm bodies made warmer by the simple perfect knowledge of care and companionship-

“Alistair?”

Zevran and the bed were what was real, not the camp and the night. Zevran with his weighty look, shadowed by unnamed emotions; not Theron’s weight against his body, shadowed by the fire.

“He was my first kiss,” Alistair said weakly, feeling delicate and shaky all through his body, tears pricking at his eyes. Theron- his friend, his Commander, his fellow Warden-

The one who was getting _married_ to the man in front of him, who’d given him plenty of second looks- but only ever in friendship, and chosen Zevran and taken Morrigan to bed, leaving _‘brother’_ to him.

He’d never fantasized before, like that. He’d had everything he’d wanted. Someone cared for him, someone called him family. He’d never needed more love than that. He’d die for Theron, and that was what Wardens _did,_ they _died._

They didn’t fall in love with each other. _He_ didn’t fall in love with men- he’d never thought of it before. He’d always known he _wanted_ someone to love, but in all his vague imaginings he’d assumed a woman. But for all that, he’d never found one he wanted to love. A couple crushes, here and there, on pretty young Chantry initiates, come and passed in a few days’ time once he’d realized that they’d never give him the time of day.

All this time, Theron had been kissing him- had given him all the kisses he’d _ever_ had- and somehow he’d never _realized._

Maybe Zevran called after him as he left; he didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything until he found himself sitting on a bench in the gardens, hedged in by pussy willow and a bed of just-blooming daffodils at his feet, that he even remembered going downstairs and passing Fergus coming in with a bouquet for Bethany.

 Alistair looked down at the daffodils and buried his face in his hands and tried not to cry, or shake.

He wanted to get Theron _flowers._


	11. Chapter 11

Somehow, she’d expected this.

The messenger had come, in the Queen’s livery with the patent with the Queen’s seal. Mother had held it in her hands and sat down in the armchair by the window in their suite’s sitting room and cried. Kirkwall was done and finished, had burned them too many times. Lothering had treated them better.

Her sister had, predictably, stood pensively in the corner, lurking, arms crossed. 

“ _Mhua vakyadr, Maryam_?” she’d asked, after reassuring Orana that everything was fine, and taking her place in the corner chair, feet tucked under her skirts, working on her embroidery.

Marian startled, as she always did when someone spoke Rivaini to her unexpectedly. Their father had spoken it to her when she’d been little, and had been the only of three of them who was even partially fluent, before Bethany had gone off to the Gallows. It had been a little point of pride to yell Rivaini curses at the top of her lungs when Marian had turned up looking for her in the chaos of falling Kirkwall and see her sister jump at least one whole inch higher than she had the first time Isabela had looked her up and down in the Hanged Man, noted the shade of her skin, and come on to her in their father’s language.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Marian had said defensively. “It’s back home. It’s closer to Merrill. Mother will be happy-”

She’d continued on in this vein for a handful more moments, but then there’d been a knock on the door.

And it was Fergus. With flowers, and a nervous air. He smiled briefly at her, more anxious than she’d ever seen him, and inclined his head to her mother.

Marian pushed off the wall.

“Bann Amell, my congratulations on your new title.”

“It is much appreciated, Teyrn Cousland.”

“May I speak with your daughter?”

He hadn’t asked like that before. Had the protocol changed, now that they were both Fereldan nobility?

At least her mother seemed surprised, as well, even if just for a moment.

“Why, of course.”

Marian loomed in front of him suddenly. For a two-handed warrior, she’d always been fast and quiet, and unexpected. Fergus leaned back from what must have been one of Marian’s signature ferocious looks- or perhaps Rabbit stalking up next to her and rumbling at her feet. Perhaps both.

“Marian, _please,_ ” Bethany said.

Fergus rearranged the flowers he was holding and held his hand out.

“A pleasure to meet you. Bethany has spoken of you. How is the Arl’s sister?”

Marian glared at his hand for a moment before clasping forearms with him.

“Worried,” she told him.

“Will you be in Denerim for long? I was told you’d gone south to the Dalish. That’s quite a journey.”

Marian stayed stone silent and didn’t let go of his arm.

“Well,” Fergus said, plastering on a smile. “I hope to see more of you. Any family of the Arl’s is a friend of mine.”

Bethany had to actually get up and kick Marian in the back of the ankle before she’d let Fergus go.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” she suggested, and hooked her arm into his, throwing a look over her shoulder at Marian as she led Fergus into the anteroom of her bedroom. She just _knew_ that her sister was going to be looming outside the door as soon as she closed it.

So, for good measure, Bethany threw the lock on it as well, before turning back to him.

He’d brought her more of his wife’s Antivan flowers.

“Bethany,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Lady Bethany-”

He faltered. This wasn’t like him. Unease seized her gut.

“Is there something-”

“You are very nice,” Fergus said. “And kind, and pleasant, and well, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone I _really_ liked, at least that I didn’t know already, and it could have been- well, _odd-_ ”

“Teyrn Fergus, I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“I’d be very happy if you just called me by my name,” he said. “And the easiest way to make that happen was if we were closer. Equals.”

He held the flowers out to her.

It took her a moment, because this wasn’t how proposals went in books and ballads.

“Are you asking me to-”

“Yes.”

What was she supposed to say? She _liked_ him, certainly, and being a Teyrna would- well she wouldn’t get a better offer, and she liked being around him, and they got along, and certainly she hadn’t gone fluttery over a man even a little bit ever before, and she was for him, some. But was that reason enough to marry him?

She didn’t want to see him disappointed.

 _They don’t like it when you say no,_ Anders’s voice wormed it’s way out of her memory.

…he wouldn’t.

But what reason did she have to turn him down? He’d want an answer, surely. And she couldn’t tell him the truth, that she was a mage and couldn’t marry. He’d have the duty to turn her in. It would disgrace her mother, and her new title, and she _couldn’t_ go back to a Circle. She’d die first.

But she couldn’t lie, or give him no answer. It would be cruel, and there would be talk, and her mother-

Fergus was waiting.

Bethany put on a smile, reminded herself that she’d hid her magic for years already, and said: “Yes.”

* * *

“Recite something for me,” his sister pleaded when the other mages were finished and gone.

“ _‘In the days of our enslavement, there lay then as today in the town of Airothous the villa of Magister Gevinctes. The lady of the House was a mage taken with her power and her position, Lutena. She was cruel and careless and loved of the humans, and her husband Berenicus was a mage of no little talent, though overshadowed by his wife. He brought with him from his family’s estates a woman by the name of Irien, and her young daughter Sabrae-’_ ”

Merrill grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. Theron kissed her back and rested their foreheads together, touching _vallas’lin_.

“- _who were made presents to his wife who had them as her personal slaves, serving her in her chambers.’_ ”

Her hands drifted to his newly-healed neck.

“I was scared I’d never hear you as Hahren again.”

Theron swallowed. It was blessedly free of pain.

“So was I.”

“There’s things Tamlen and Ashalle and I have to tell you-”

“I have to go see Satheraan.”

“His mother had him, she said he needed rest,” Merrill told him. “It’s about Sabrae, brother.”

He couldn’t ignore that.

There was a small back hallway of guest rooms on the second floor of the estate. Alistair had one of them, and Ashalle and Tamlen had been given the others, shuffling out some of the Wardens to parts unknown. Both were sitting on the floor when they arrived, engaged in a game of tali stone, a dexterity game played with pebbles for children, and small polished stone and bone beads, as his brother and mother were using, for adults.

Tamlen tucked nine beads between his fingers and flipped the bone tile back and forth across all his fingers as they walked in, winning this round of the game, and then dropped everything as he looked up. The beads bounced _t-t-tic_ s off the wooden floor as he snatched Theron into a hug.

“I’m all right,” Theron reassured him quietly, and kissed his hair.

“Is your life _always_ this full of shit now, brother?” he asked, voice muffled but still obviously rough. “How many times have you almost died since we got separated?”

Theron thought back and started counting. Tamlen pounded him on the back.

“Fuck you!”

“I’ve been very good at not getting killed,” Theron said. “I’ve been well, brother.”

“I can’t lose you,” Tamlen mumbled against his shoulder. “So much is gone, I can’t lose you too.”

“What’s gone?” Theron asked, and the atmosphere of the room turned uncomfortable.

“Theron,” Merrill finally said. “You remember how the clan was smaller, on Sundermount?”

“Yes.”

“It was autumn when Sabrae came to Amaranthine,” Ashalle told him. “It’s not the best time of year to travel. There was sickness, on the ships to Gwaren, and in Gwaren. The humans weren’t much bothered, Ilen said, or the city elves, but Sabrae-”

Sickness generally wasn’t a catastrophe in the clans. There were too many mages, all taught in rudimentary healing and herbalism, to let things go that far.

“Keeper Marethari-” Theron started to say, dread creeping its way down his spine.

Tamlen lifted his head.

“She was possessed,” he said. “We killed her. There are only twelve adults of Sabrae now, Theron. And your son, and Fenaral and Radha had a daughter.”

 _Fourteen._ Sabrae had been a healthy clan, one of the smallest in Ferelden, some two hundred and sixty adults strong. On Sundermount they’d been about a hundred, still vastly reduced and minuscule by Dalish standards, but it had been salvageable number.

 _Fourteen_ was not a salvageable number.

“Who,” Theron asked. “Who’s still alive?”

“Us,” Ashalle said. “Ilen, Fenarel, Junar, Radha, Rosallin, Sousil, Reathe, and Mahnas.”

Keeper Marethari was dead. Hahren Paivel was dead. Halla Keeper Maren was dead.

There was no First to step up and no Second to guard the clan.

Theron pushed away from Tamlen and put his hands on his _vallas’lin_ , covering his eyes.

Was _this_ the cost of his family? Was _this_ what the Creators wanted, _demanded_ for the good of the People? His life, Tamlen’s life, Merrill’s safety?

Falon’din had used his old, ruined temple to bring him to the Grey Wardens and take Tamlen away from Sabrae. The Tainted eluvian had taken Merrill’s security in her magic and cost her her place in the clan.

No Hahren, no Second, no First. They’d been the future of Sabrae, he’d grown up knowing it, grown up having it said less often than it was implicitly assumed, in the responsibilities they’d been given and the lessons they’d been taught. Keeper, Second, Hahren- a trifecta to lead Sabrae safely and soundly into the future, into new prosperity, out of the slow decline they’d been enduring over the last two centuries, less children and less mages. He and Merrill would marry, have a great sprawling family of mage children for Sabrae, and all would be well again with the blood of Sabrae strengthened by Merrill’s direct descent from the lords of House Alerion, once rulers of Lydes- curators of the vast library, leading mage-scholars, and lieutenants of the Fade Hunters. In the last fourteen generations of Theron’s father’s line only _three_ had been born without magic- Theron himself, his grandfather Soleanathe, and Soleanathe’s great-great grandfather. Theron’s father Mahariel had been Keeper, and his grandfather before him, and his father, and his father, and his grandmother, and her mother, and her father, and his grandfather, and his mother, and her-

 Sabrae ended here. A great family of the Dales, descended from a leader of the revolt against the Magisters and her followers. There would be no more heroes here- no more like Sabrae Irienes, who released a taipan into her slavers’ bedsheets and to left them dying with venom in their blood while she raised the El’vhen of southeastern Tevinter’s vineyards to Shartan in the false dawn. No more like Lady Haurnatha, the great poet who put her pen aside in favor of taipan venom on the knife’s edge when her cousins would have seen her line killed for the prize of the House Sabrae’s ancient enchanted hold on the rise of the Frostbacks. No more like Lord Ilthemien, middle-aged and the proud father of three, who took up his son’s sword when the Knight Thahoris fell at Montsimmard, and fell himself defending Halam’shiral. No more like Thahoris’s sister Ghanadin, fallen to Templars as she killed the cornered Fade Hunters she’d been assigned to guard to shred the Veil on the edge of the Emerald Graves and ensure that the Chantry’s mage-warriors were unable to stop the second-to-last rally of the El’vhen army from breaking the siege on Verchiel. No more like Misedrin, the youngest, third child, last Keeper of the Hold, who’d kept the mountain road to Orzammar and Ferelden safe all through the war with his own knives and skill in night and the cover of stone, the proud last master of Sabrae’s _bana’raselanala_ tradition.

Misedrin had held the way out of the Dales for the People fleeing the eastward march of the Chantry even past the fall of Halam’shiral. House Sabrae had been the last to leave their lands, staying until the Templars had overrun Sabrae’s  town of Esa’ir and stood at the bottom of the path that led up to the hold that guarded the western mouth of Gherlen’s Pass. Misedrin would have spent his own life to set the blood seals that presumably still held Sabrae’s Choice in secret until this day, had his sisters-in-law not sealed his wounds and gathered the House to flee through the hidden back path. Misedrin had led House Sabrae across the Alamarri lands of Ferelden and into the Brecilian, where the Veil was always thin and the Chantry feared to step, where the inherent liminality of the vast forest would strengthen the mages Sabrae would birth and house; mages like first Keeper Ga’len, and Keepers Iveani and Dhavasangr and Mahariel-

There would be no more of them. Falon’din had put him on the path to secure a home and the Third City of the People. The cost was his life, his future- and Sabrae.

“We are a dead clan,” Theron said, voice catching in his throat in a way that not hours ago would have meant he was about to tear his wounds open again. Now, it was merely the verge of tears, of weeping that would never stop, as the chasm he felt opening in his chest would never heal. His _clan-_ he had no home. Ashalle would join Vhadan’ena, and the others would go where they willed. He was no Keeper, no First; he could not ask the other clans for new families and rebuild from nothing. He would never be able to call himself Theron Mahariel Sabrae again- he would have to lose his names, be Warden-Commander Theron, Arl Theron, Theron of the Wardens.

Sworn to the Oath of the Dales, but without a place. Without a clan; homeless, hopeless, bereft.

They would have to hold a funeral for the clan, have Sabrae mourned by the rest of the People. In the proper way of things he should have, as the old Hahren’s graduated apprentice, committed the stories of Sabrae to the memory and keeping of the People, then sacrificed his life to the Creators but he _couldn’t,_ he was Arl-Commander and Hero and why, _why_ did it always come down to this? His two duties, contradicting, leaving him inadequate in both!

He would rather have been named an exile, rather have given in to being _i’tel’melin_ and willingly given up his name and family and love to be as the other Dalish Wardens, than this.

He would have rather _died_ than this.

“The line of Sabrae Irienes has ended-”

“It hasn’t, Theron,” Merrill said. “You have Hathen-”

“It is not _enough,_ ” he wept. “ _He_ cannot be Keeper, Merrill! You were struck from the succession! _You_ cannot become Keeper! Without a Keeper; without _families,_ without _children_ or-”

He reached out, unseeing, through his tears for comfort. His family provided, drawing close and granting warmth and encompassing touch, some reassurance of safety.

“It doesn’t have to be the end of Sabrae,” Ashalle said, after a time. “I had a thought. You will marry Satheraan, and that is a clan tie of a sort. Rajrad already knows us, and Hathen. We could bring him.”

“But why would he come?” Theron asked. “The family he knows is in Revasina.”

“Which is not so far from us now,” Ashalle reminded him. “Some walking, at an easy enough distance for any Dalish in reasonable health.”

“The clan wasn’t very happy about it,” Merrill said. “They don’t want any more… foreign mages.”

Theron freed an arm and hugged her around the waist.

“It sounded like,” Tamlen said. “From what they said- which wasn’t a _real_ decision, we were just talking about what we could do- the clan would rather leave _‘Clan Sabrae’_ behind and be _‘House Sabrae’_ again.”

“But we don’t have- we’re not back in the Dales, we don’t have Esa’ir back. We don’t have the House seat, we don’t have the House lands-”

“We have land in Hallarenis’haminathe,” Merrill said. “The People have been building in the city, we know they have! We can build a new House seat. Just because we have something new doesn’t mean we forget the old. When we get the Dales back, we’ll be ready. We’ll have a Lord to release the blood wards and sit in the hall and rule again. We’ll have a Keeper of the Hold, and a Commander of the House, Masters of the Towns- all of it.”

“But-”

The Houses were something of the Dales. Surely- _surely_ there was something wrong with resurrecting them in Hallarenis’haminathe? Wasn’t that giving up on the Dales? Wasn’t it-

“It is a bit fanciful,” Ashalle said. “The other Keepers would have to agree-”

“It’s _our_ clan,” Merrill argued. “Why should _they_ get to decide if we can or can’t be a House again?”

-wasn’t it death to Sabrae if they _didn’t_ resurrect the House? Could it be cheapening of the Third City to say that there couldn’t- or _shouldn’t-_ be Houses there? But-

“Who?” Theron asked. “A House needs a-”

“You, brother,” Tamlen said. “Sabrae would have you as our Lord.”

* * *

He’d pushed too far, it seemed, trying to bring himself out of his own head. All Alistair had wanted was to offer some help, and he’d sent him off in a mire of emotions instead.

Zevran had more of the peach brandy Alistair had brought. He didn’t know if alcohol was a good choice or not at the moment, but the peach brandy was insufferably sweet. The taste helped ground him- Ferelden meant Antiva was behind him, and the disgusting sucre in his mouth was better than the filth he felt in his soul and the-

He took another large mouthful, almost too large, and had to swallow carefully to keep from spilling on the sheets.

The door opened- no, it wasn’t, Zevran realized as he put the bottle down. It was the panel that led to the hidden passageway to the Arlessa’s suite. The panel was cracked open a smidge.

“Diego?”

The panel was pushed open, but it was Kieran who wiggled through first. He tried to clamber up onto the bed, but it was too short. Diego lifted him up before Zevran could unwrap himself from the sheets, and climbed up himself. Zevran untangled himself and pulled them both into a cocoon of blankets with him.

“ _Babae_ has lots of emotions,” Kieran said, pressing close.

“Your _Babae_ is a very emotional man.”

Kieran made a huffy grumbling sound.

“He was scared and mad and upset and surprised and he’s not here.”

He’d left?

“He’s with Aunt Merrill and Uncle Tamlen and _Hamae_ but _I want him._ ”

“So you went to Diego instead?”

“And Tiar,” Diego said. “But she’s pretending that she thinks it’s a bad idea to come because you were screaming so we shouldn’t bother you but _I_ know she’s just pretending she doesn’t care because she’s scared.”

Dread hit him straight in the gut.

“She is scared of me?”

“No, she trusts you, but-”

Diego scrunched up his face in thought.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “She’s scared. She gets more fight-like when she’s scared.”

“It can be a source of great fear, trusting someone,” Zevran said, remembering his own conundrum- he’d trusted Theron with his life long before he’d let himself even _think_ about even simply being friends, and not in a contract for his life.

“But she doesn’t _need_ to be,” Diego complained.

“She’s safe,” Kieran agreed grumpily. _“Mine.”_

Zevran laughed.

“Ah, you are your _Babae_ ’s son, Kieran,” he said. “Emotional and cuddly and adopting anyone who needs a kind life.”

Kieran frowned at him.

“So are you, _Papa_.”

He could feel Diego wilt a bit on that last word, and- and could it be-

“Well,” he said to Kieran, keeping his tone light and amused. “If you have adopted them does that mean you have found yourself a brother and sister?”

“They’re yours so they’re _Babae_ ’s so they’re _mine,_ ” Kieran said, and wriggled out of his hold to flop face-first against Diego, who caught him.

“That is quite the train of logic,” Zevran said, keeping a subtle eye on Diego. “Very good. Though I believe it is generally polite to _ask_ before declaring yourself siblings.”

Diego tensed a moment, and then asked, very carefully:

“You can do that?”

Zevran stroked his hair.

“You can _always_ choose your family.”

Was it time to take a chance? Would it be too much? Too soon?

Tiar and Diego weren’t the same terrified hunted apprentices he’d saved in Rialto. Tiar was still prickly, but Diego seemed to have shed his shyness. After these months knowing them, Zevran knew why that was. Tiar had protected him, in the Crows. It was clear with every interaction. He’d had someone to trust, someone who was safe, and he’d come off the better for it, able to latch onto new trust. Tiar hadn’t been able to trust.

But just because she didn’t show it didn’t mean she didn’t feel it now. Diego had said as much.

And both of them- well, they’d _defended_ him. They’d ganged up on his mother and set their own watch for Salvail. When there was no danger, they behaved more like children. They acted out, they bickered with each other in a way only those who had been close for years could.

Tiar and Diego were siblings already, even if they didn’t realize it, or say it. But would they-?

He would only know if he asked.

“I did it,” Zevran continued, still stroking Diego’s hair. The boy leaned into it. “More than once. Theron, and then his mother. Then Alistair. Morrigan and Kieran.”

He ducked down and put a kiss on the back of Kieran’s head, in a ticklish spot he knew. Kieran squirmed and giggled.

“But he’s-” Diego said. “He’s the Arl’s son, and you and the Arl are getting married.”

“And I could still have refused,” Zevran said. “But I did not want to. I wanted Kieran to be-”

Had he- he hadn’t actually _said_ this before, he realized, as the words left his mouth.

“-my son-”

His son. He was a father. He was thirty-three, he was free of the Crows, he was loved, he was going to be married, he had a _son._

Ten years ago he’d known he was likely to die young and hard, within the next few years. His only real hope had been that it would be fast, not slow; and on a difficult contract, and not a betrayal. A dead Crow, longer-lived than most taken by the assassins, proud of his skill and his rank as his soul was taken to the Void- they’d had no place amongst the godly in life, so why should they be blessed in death? Grab pleasure in life, where it was safe to, and endure through the rest.

But now Theron had a slew of endearments to call him, and Morrigan would use his name and Alistair seemed to have slipped into _‘Zev’_ without realizing it, and there were people who called him ‘ _da’len’_ again and Kieran looked at him and called him _‘Papa’._

That last hadn’t felt real until now.

“-as well as Theron’s. And I would-”

Could he? Could he say this? It was- but he-

“-be more than happy to have you and Tiar, as well.”

There was a loud _thunk_ from the passage to the Arlessa’s suite.

Zevran did his best not to laugh, but amusement ended up in his tone regardless.

“You can come out, Tiar. It’s all right.”

He waited a moment. The moment came, and continued.

Diego glanced anxiously over at the hidden passage, and Zevran got out of the bed, draping the sheets over the boys.

The passage was empty, but closed on the other end. He had to feel on the inside of the other door panel with his fingers to find the catch in the dark, but it was simple enough to manage.

He started to push it open, and it was slammed shut from the other side.

Zevran put his hands on the wood, and rested his forehead against it.

“Tiar?” he asked gently.

No response.

“ _Isagadi-”_

Tiar slammed a fist against her side of the panel to silence him.

He waited a moment to see if she would say something. She didn’t.

“Do you want me to-”

_“How could you **say** that!”_

Her voice was rough, and full of tears, and pain, and– yes, fear. He closed his eyes, remembering. 

“I could say it because I mean it, Tiar.”

 She hit the door again.

Zevran sat down in the passage, one side pressed up against the hidden panel.

“I will leave if you want me to,” he told her through the door. “But I would like to help you. I know how difficult emotions can be.”

He waited again, and no reply.

“If you talk about how you are feeling, I will help as much as I can.”

Again, nothing.

“Well,” Zevran said. “What I can offer from observation is this: you seem angry.”

He thought he heard some noise of derision from the other side of the door, but it was likely that he’d imagined it.

“Now, anger, I have found, is a tricky emotion. It _seems_ very straightforward, and that is the great lie of it. Anger is a defense, one so overwhelming that the _reason_ for the defense is easily hidden, sometimes even to one’s self. I have had plenty of experience with it. Kieran’s mother was- well, she is still, no?- a rather caustic person when the mood strikes her. She is prideful and bent on power and knowledge. An admirable woman in many respects, even in the sharpness of her tongue. But the sharp words are a cover for feeling out-of-place, or mocked, or perceived as stupid or having feelings. She did not have a good mother, Morrigan, and it has left it’s mark. She pushes at people because she is trying to keep them away, so she will not be vulnerable. I have done the same to Theron a few times, feeling scared that I would not be understood or listened to, dismissed or not treated with empathy or an honest attempt to be cared for. I have lashed out at him for that, and done my apologies. Theron has had his moments as well- not _with_ me, mostly, but more often _for_ me. Hurt can be a complicated thing as well. I have been hurt many ways by the Crows, and I have plenty of anger over that- you have heard it. Theron has been angry- _furious-_ when I am not respected. Sometimes it is a bit- hm.”

How to put this?

“More often he is angry because if I have been hurt then he feels that he has not protected me, and he feels guilty about it. That is his hurt. But he has also been angry because of injustice against people. And he has been angry over loss. In Antiva City, tearing through the Crows was because he was scared I was dead, and if I was dead, it would hurt him deeply. Being angry was a way to keep from feeling fear or grief, and to make other people hurt like he did. That is what we do with anger, when we attack other people in it. We are hurt, and the way we are expressing it is by making other people hurt like we do, so that they understand. Or to hurt them so that they go away, because we are scared of being hurt further.”

“That’s why we get angry?” Kieran asked, and Zevran looked over. The boys had followed him into the passage.

“Yes, it is,” he told Kieran, and pulled him into his lap.

Diego crept in and pressed against his side, wedging himself between Zevran and the door.

“I don’t think I get angry when I get hurt,” he said quietly. “I- I want to hide. And cry. But I can’t cry.”

“When I am the most scared, I wish to hide as well,” Zevran told him. “Hiding is the only thing that makes me feel safe again. I am sorry about your tears. It took me some time after leaving the Crows to be able to cry. It will come back, as you feel safer.”

The door clicked as the catch was released from the other side. Diego’s weight on the panel opened it enough to have a view of the room.

Zevran put Kieran down and stood, going into the room. Tiar was huddled on the other side of the door, just past the hinges, knees drawn up.

He knelt next to her and put a gentle hand on her back.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he told her. “Do you want a hug?”

For a few moments, it seemed like the answer would be _‘no’_ ; but then she shoved off the wall and toppled into him. He held her tightly.

Diego jabbed her in the ribs with a finger and hissed: _“Tell him!”_ at her.

She shoved him away with her foot.

“ _I’ll_ tell him,” he threatened.

“No,” Zevran told him. “It is her choice what she wishes to share.”

Kieran came and tried to squeeze himself into their hug.

“Kieran, I am paying attention to Tiar right now.”

“ _I_ want a hug.”

“I will hug you again after Tiar is ready to be finished.”

Kieran scowled. Diego sat back up and pulled him into a hug. Zevran gave him a grateful smile, and dropped his cheek against the top of Tiar’s head.

“I am listening, if you wish to speak.”

She didn’t, for a few minutes. He waited until she finally did.

“Why would you want me.”

“Because I like you,” he told her. “Because I want to make you feel safe and happy. I want you to have a good life, and I think I can give it to you. It would also- hm. You are very important to me, and you will not be any more or less important whether I am your parent or not, and I will still think of us as family, but-”

This was frustrating. He didn’t want to scare her, he didn’t want to pressure her, but he thought of _‘family’_ and it seemed as though rationality fled. It was all pure emotion, it was all warm feelings, bright aching things that he wanted to share.

“It was-”

No, that wasn’t right either. He sighed.

“I am loved. I am wanted. I am cared for. It has changed my life entirely for the better. I want to give you a life like that, where you are not alone and you feel secure in yourself. I can- I will give it to you, if you will let me. However you want me. As a mentor or a guardian or some sort of family or-”

Tiar slipped her arms out from where they’d been stuck between his body and hers, and hugged him back, just holding on.

“You do not have to answer me,” Zevran told her. “I want you to make a decision that pleases you.”

“Satheraan?”

Theron’s question came down the passage. From the sound of it, he’d just stepped in the other room.

Tiar pushed at him.

“Go.”

“Are you certain?”

“Go away,” she said, and pushed him harder. Zevran let go and stood, pausing before he went back to his and Theron’s room to pick up Kieran and give him his promised hug.

“Can you leave I and your _Babae_ alone for a while?” he asked the boy. “We must have serious conversations.”

Kieran nodded, even if he whined a bit at being put down again.

Zevran closed both doors in the passage as he went through them. Theron had begun to take off his armor, and he went to help.

Theron didn’t let him. As soon as Zevran was close enough, his love cupped his face and looked him right in the eyes.

“How are you?” he asked, and from this close, Zevran could tell that he’d been crying recently, and there was another layer of worry behind what he was showing now.

“How are _you?_ You look worn-”

“No,” Theron cut him off. “You were collapsing and screaming. What was wrong?”

Zevran’s eyes flicked back to the open peach brandy and the glasses. A drunk Theron was useless for everything, but this conversation-

“You will not like it,” he said. “Finish taking your armor off first.”

Theron let him go to follow orders, and quickly downed almost three more glasses of the disgusting sweetness. He wanted to go wash his mouth out, but he’d need that grounding.

It took a handful more of minutes before Theron was finished getting out of his armor. He clambered up on the bed and held his arms open for Zevran to cuddle.

Zevran lay down carefully with him.

“I told you,” he said. “About-”

It was still so hard to say, and it was harder now given the day. He thought back to the night they’d gotten engaged and buried his head into Theron’s shoulder- _don’t look it’s easier-_ remembered why he’d drunk the disgusting brandy- _Ferelden that’s home now-_ it wasn’t enough he sought out Theron’s hands and squeezed, squeezed- _the pain now not the pain then this is better this is better-_

“Satheraan?”

_-losing myself don’t want to go back hurts scared don’t want to go back don’t want to-_

“Go back where?”

His mouth was disgustingly sweet. Pastries, candies, little cakes, fruits, _parties_ arms around him heat close another body touching _touching him-_

 

 

 

When he came back to himself he was shaking, his face was wet, and Theron was half-off the bed.

He fisted his hands over his eyes, trying to calm down.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Theron lifted his hands from his face, slow and deliberate, and gave him one of his so-gentle kisses.

“It’s all right. Do you want to be held again?”

“I don’t know.”

Theron eased them into it, slipping an arm under his shoulders and resting the other lightly over his stomach, not restraining, just close. He let Zevran decide to turn over on his side and shift closer.

“Can you tell me where now?” Theron asked quietly.

He couldn’t say it directly. Zevran cursed himself- all this time he hadn’t been able to admit it with the truth of what he’d been through, and now he couldn’t _talk_ about it!

“What I told you when we became engaged,” he said, trying his best to stay oblique, and Theron kissed his hairline. “At the Summer Lily. I had no real memories of it. With the Crows, not so much when I was younger, more when I was older. But I enjoyed it.”

He heard Theron take a particular breath, steadying and disbelieving.

“Enjoyed?”

“I had orgasms,” Zevran said. “I know, now, that it is not the same, but _then-_ it was one of the few good things I had. There were handsome, beautiful people; good liquor, exquisite food-”

Sweet cakes- _NO_

“ _Ma vhenan, ma vhenan,_ ” Theron said, raking a hand into his hair. A hesitation- and then Zevran felt Theron’s hand tighten. He arched a little into the pull and tried to remember Ferelden, snow, dogs, Dalish, Theron- “It’s passed, you’re safe.”

Breathe. He could. He could stay here, here with Theron.

“I had some pride, being good at it,” he continued. “And it was-”

He swallowed, because this one _hurt._ His eyes pricked.

“-they told me I was good,” Zevran whispered. “The Crows. The- other people. I did it and they told me I was good, for doing it. I wanted to be good-”

“You are,” Theron told him. “You are very good, Satheraan, you are so good, I learn more about you and it’s such a wonder, all the good you have tucked away and never even realized, I love you-”

Theron’s spill of praise hit him where it always did, the place that started to bring the warm, peaceful fog. He’d never experienced more than the slightest touch of it, but it seemed so _nice_ and he wanted to wallow in it- but right now, a touch was enough. It was calm, it was good.

“It makes no sense,” he said. “I enjoyed it when it was happening. But I _remembered-_ ”

He faltered. This was dangerous. If he talked about it, the remembering, surely it would swamp him again.

“You are safe,” Theron told him, stroking down his back. He pulled out the last word, tone descending. The pattern, and this stroking- this was what he did to scared animals. “You are safe-”

Regardless, perhaps it was working.

“Fear,” Zevran told him. If he kept it a list, maybe the memories would stay further away. “Shame. Revulsion. P… _powerless-_ ”

“You are not now,” he was reminded, as Theron tried to soothe the tension out of his shoulders.

“I feel _filthy,_ ” Zevran finally admitted, and it was so humiliating to say, he didn’t know why.

“You were-” Theron began, and Zevran could hear where he decided not to say a word. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

He buried his bitter snort in Theron’s chest.

“There are plenty of things wrong with the people who hurt you,” Theron said firmly. “And it does make sense, remembering it like this. If you were feeling that, you wouldn’t have been able to do what you’d been told, and you would have been killed. So you only noticed what you liked. You were doing the only thing you could do to protect yourself and stay alive. And I-”

“You what?” Zevran asked after a moment, when he didn’t continue.

“I don’t know if it’s a bad thing to say or not.”

“I want to hear.”

“You’re sure?”

“Theron,” he said, and finally looked up at his love. “It will not be even _near_ the worst of what I have heard, I am certain of that. And I know you do not want to hurt me. That _does_ make a difference. To me.”

Theron looked extremely uncertain as he finished his thought, and watched him carefully. Zevran tried to keep a neutral expression, but wasn’t sure how well he did.

“It was absolutely awful, what you lived through with them, but I am so happy that you’re alive and I- I’m proud of you for making it and it sounds so bad to say-”

“I think I would like you not to say it again,” Zevran told him. “But I understand.”

Theron took a deep breath and unsuccessfully hid his nervous guilt in his eyes.

“Okay. Okay. I- with what you’ve been saying, that’s what you remembered from the Crows? What about the Summer Lily-”

The smell of flowers and perfume and cooked food permeated the hallway and hadn’t quite faded here yet, the door shut, it wasn’t well-lit, the-

_“NO!”_

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t-” Theron promised in a frantic rush, and Zevran stared at his face, trying to stay present, while Theron’s fingers slid along his cheekbones and jaw. It was a light sensation, almost ticklish, and left his skin tingling. Focus on that, follow the lines of Theron’s _vallas’lin_ with his eyes, that was fear and guilt on his face, emotions, outside him, not his, Theron was his, _this_ was his, _that_ wasn’t, he’d cut it away, smashed it against darkspawn and Amaranthine silverite and stone and he would never take it back, would never _go_ back to that.

He dropped his head back into Theron’s chest and let Theron hold him tightly as he focused on his breathing.

* * *

Nehna came to see her after she was done with Satheraan. Tanis wasn’t surprised. She’d had Damien go off with Orana, arranged herself comfortably on the bed with some embroidery, and been waiting for this.

Nehna came in silently, closing the door behind her, and sat next to her. She examined the pattern Tanis was stitching for a few moments before saying anything.

“He didn’t remember- working,” she said. “When I was- but he just did. And- with the Crows-”

Tanis put her embroidery aside and took Nehna’s hands.

“The Crows?” she asked gently.

“I knew,” Nehna said, it seemed as though she was forcing his word out of a choke, high in throat, pure gag reflex at a thought. “What they did to- to-”

It shouldn’t have surprised her, the end of the sentence, but it did.

“- _Adan,_ ” Nehna managed, and that- they just didn’t _talk_ about her husband. “I _knew_ about the- what they- but it wasn’t-”

“Nehna?”

“They- he was- a _slave-_ ”

The breaks in her words before had been sheer fear and pain of approaching the topic head-on, but now it was fighting down sobs.

_“-they-!”_

Tanis guided her into her arms.

“He’s not a Crow now,” she reminded her. “He’s safe.”

“It was bad enough- it was _bad enough!_ ”

“And it’s better now.”

“It _wasn’t!_ ” Nehna screamed into her shoulder. “That _man_ sold him to the Crows and _they_ made him work just the same! _That **man-**_ ”

Tanis held her close, staring at the far wall, trying to keep her thoughts quiet.

“I want him _dead_ ,” Nehna snarled. “I’ll _go_ back to Antiva I’ll go back just to _kill him_ -”

“Satheraan told me he’s dead,” Tanis said, because this was some comfort she could offer. “Ashera killed him.”

 ** _“Good,”_** Nehna sobbed, viciously, hoarsely.

Tanis paused a moment, because Nehna was in a state, but this was implying that...

“He told me that Ashera killed him because she found out he’d been poisoning you,” Tanis told her. “He wasn’t doing it properly. That was why you were sick.”

Nehna inhaled sharply, choking on air, and looked at her with wide, wild wet eyes.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t _sick-_ ”

“You were, because of the poison.”

Nehna shook her head fiercely.

“No, _no!_ I _wasn’t sick,_ it wasn’t- it _wasn’t my fault-!_ ”

Tanis let her cry herself out and then laid her down on their bed when she fell asleep from exhaustion, then took her embroidery back up.

She kept at it until she had to light the oil lamps and turn them as high as they could go to see her work. Tanis still had to strain, but her thoughts stayed quiet.

It was all quiet.

* * *

Alistair hadn’t slept well, and hadn’t eaten well either. He’d avoided the others after he’d run away from Zevran the afternoon before, and only eaten a small, late dinner.

Today he was up even earlier than normal, trying to cram in food before anyone else could come keep him company. It didn’t quite work- Oghren came down when he was only halfway through.

“Heh,” he said, clearly satisfied with himself, as he sat down with his food. “Made it.”

“Made what?” Alistair asked.

“Down here before Theron. Didn’t get him yesterday for trainin’, but I ain’t lettin’ it go any longer. Basic berserker technique for him this mornin’.”

With Oghren in the kitchen, eating with him, he wasn’t able to leave as quickly as he’d meant to. Theron and Zevran arrived and he’d- hoped to avoid that.

Theron’s entrance wasn’t anything unusual. It was the same as every other day they’d spent in the estate.

But he walked in, looking tired, and Alistair had to hide a blush behind his cup because Theron walked in and Alistair could imagine him walking over and giving him a quick kiss good morning, like he’d seen Theron do for Zevran plenty of times.

Zevran was watching him.

_Andraste help me be strong._

Oghren bullied Theron into agreeing to berserker training, which in reality meant that Theron had already been mostly in agreement and Zevran had poked him under the table when Oghren had started insisting on it.

So they all went out to practice together. Oghren took Theron off to the main area. Zevran touched him on the arm as he watched them go.

“I owe you a spar, yes?”

That was right, he did.

“Sword and shield?” Zevran asked. “Or your new skills?”

“You’d win.”

“Ah, but you learn by losing, yes? A spar _and_ lessons?”

Well… Zevran _was_ good at what he did.

And good at teaching, too, it turned out. Predictably, with two swords against Zevran, he kept losing terribly. But Zevran went through every bout with him again, much more slowly, and explained what had happened. After some time of this- enough time that the sun was well up, when had that happened?- Zevran stepped back and looked him over.

“What are you planning on this being?” he asked. “Will you fight like this on the battlefield? Will you put away your shield?”

“No, I’m too good at it,” Alistair told him. “That’s why I started training for dual-wielding anyway- I don’t have anything else to learn in technique for sword and shield. I got bored.”

He stopped a minute. He’d had vague thoughts, but at the same time he didn’t want to commit, but _also_ what if he did-

“I might use it in real fights if I get better at it,” he said. “Switch it up a little. Probably not against darkspawn, but nobody _thinking_ would ever expect an opponent to totally change their fighting style halfway through.”

“That could be a very good tactic if you choose to perfect it,” Zevran said. “I will tell you- I will always rely on speed and agility to fight. You, less so. You use your strength too much to leave it behind simply because you have taken a new style. And you should not! Strength can break defenses. Not that you should _not_ attempt to go around them, or learn how. But there is no point in ignoring a strength."

He looked him up and down.

“Though I would say that lighter armor would be an asset in going around.”

“I was kind of thinking about switching, anyway,” Alistair admitted. “The massive heavy armor is really more Theron’s thing. He _needs_ it, the way he fights. But I’m not so, y’know, _chargey._ ”

“You run in after him often enough.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because-” Alistair said, and then realized that he didn’t really _have_ a reason. Not one that made practical sense. Theron was long past the days of needing someone to guard his back in any typical battle. He just-

 _Oh_ no, he couldn’t say _that_ to Zevran. Bad enough the other man had already realized that he was in love with Theron. He shouldn’t go around making it _obvious._ Saying _‘because I don’t want to be far from him’_ was not at _all_ appropriate.

“He does rush things, yes,” Zevran said. “I am glad you are also protecting him.”

Okay. Okay, problem avoided.

“I’m more of a mid-lines guy. Theron and Oghren can go charging in- I’m best holding _our_ line.”

“ _I_ remember you being the one to run in-”

“Yeah, well, that was the Blight and I learned better. I can take lighter armor. The shield will take blows and I’ll be a little faster. Won’t use up so much stamina either. I’ve got a Warden’s one, but I could make it last even longer.”

“A good plan,” Zevran said. “Staying power, as opposed to overwhelming force.”

His eyes slid over to Theron and Oghren.

“Not that there is anything _wrong_ with such force…”

They had taken a break, or- no, Theron had gotten worked up, and Oghren seemed to be trying to talk him into getting himself down. Theron’s protective fury was-

Well-

Now that it wasn’t a _problem-_

“You like what you see?”

Alistair turned away because he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be thinking these things, not now, not in front of Zevran, not _ever,_ Theron got protective and possessive like that over Zevran and _not him,_ this wasn’t his to take and he _wasn’t going to._

“I won’t steal him,” he promised Zevran.

The other man gave him a curious, faintly puzzled look.

“You couldn’t possibly.”

And that was just it, wasn’t it. Theron had made his choice years ago. Alistair had missed his chance, and now Theron would never give him a second look.

* * *

He was telling himself that he’d used up all his anger and related emotions with Oghren that morning, but the problem was that it wasn’t really true.

About nine or so, after they’d finished training and he and Alistair and Oghren had gone for another go at breakfast, people started turning up at the estate to see him.

It wasn’t even about anything _reasonable._ They all tried to poke and pry for information about the Landsmeet accusations and the duels yesterday and about _Zevran,_ and he was _trying_ to be polite but there was only so far he was willing to go, and it did _not_ include gossiping about his _sal’shiral_ ’s personal life or the past he wanted to keep that way.

The only good thing today: Damien coming to deliver a rather unnecessary invitation to Fergus and Bethany’s betrothal party in tomorrow evening, and to inform him that his next guests were Rosaire Desrochers, and with him was Brother Genitivi. He was happy enough to go meet them in the front hall.

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time, Your Arlship,” Rosaire said quickly. “I can come back another time, it’s just that I wanted to talk with you about your people’s history and Brother Genitivi shared what he learned from you with me and I have questions and also it’s fascinating.”

Talking about the Dalish sounded like a _great_ idea. It would also prevent him from receiving more visitors he didn’t want to see.

“I have plenty of time,” Theron said, and invited them both in.

“How fascinating!” Brother Genitivi exclaimed immediately upon entering the receiving hall. Rosaire gasped- in delight? Theron hoped it was delight- as he saw the work the Dalish crafters had put in to properly decorating the estate.

Brother Genitivi’s cane clicked rapidly against the floor as he went to inspect the largest fresco panel, directly across from the door.

“Does this have some meaning?” he asked. “And such use of color! Bold lines and blocks offset by delicate detailing, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“You wouldn’t have,” Theron said, stepping up next to him. Rosaire was still looking around in excitement, trying to take everything in, but caught up. “The last place there was art like this was in the Dales. What the Chantry and the Orlesians didn’t destroy degraded from lack of care, but for a few remote areas where our Crafters can regularly travel to restore their work without the threat of humans.”

“This is one story, isn’t it?” Rosaire asked, taking a few steps to the right. “Here, there’s- I can see a narrative but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s the founding of Arlathan,” Theron said, and walked them down to the far end of it to narrate the story. “Here- this is where it starts.”

_The People lived in a beautiful time of peace, green and alive, and the Evanuris gave us all. Sylaise brought us fire, Mythal taught us to hold the law, Elgar’nan made night and day, Andruil showed us the ways to sustenance, Dirthamen instructed us in writing, and Falon’din gave us mercy and compassion._

_June had not yet given a gift. He had his skills and he meant to teach, but the People went as they willed and forges and workshops could not be carried._

_So came one day June to Sylaise, and asked of her: “Your fire is sacred and it gathers the People around it. How may I keep the People in one place, to receive my gifts?”_

_And Sylaise promised she would provide a way. She went deep into the green forests of the sea where all three of the worldly powers met, and lit her great fire, unending, open to the sun and set upon the earth and surrounded by the waters. And all the People gathered, for this fire was as no other fire that ever was or ever shall be, and the other gods even to Falon’din stopping from his travels gathered as well._

_So did June show all gathered his gifts- the working of stone, the planing of wood, the means of moving by water and air, and the bending of the metals and sands with Sylaise’s fires._

_And his teachings grew and grew as he taught them again and again so that they would be remembered; and the gods walked among them with the People._

_And Mythal stood before a teaching of stone and said: “This will be a place of justice, where disagreements are settled and punishments assigned.”_

_And Andruil stood before a teaching of wood and said: “This will be a place of animals, to store what is taken and care for those closest to you.”_

_And Sylaise stood before a teaching of water and air and said: “Here will be a place of growth, where the healers may heal and the children may play.”_

_And Dirthamen stood before a teaching of metal and said: “Here will be a place of recording, where inscriptions may be made and last as long as the earth.”_

_And Falon’din stood before a teaching of sand and said: “Here will be a place of seeing, for any may look ahead or behind or within.”_

_And they added their gifts to June’s, and the People saw it and wondered at it and knew it was good, and called it Arlath’an, and their home had the most glory of all the world._

There was a respectful silence for a moment as Theron stared up at the giant fresco of their First City, and Rosaire and Brother Genitivi absorbed what they’d been told.

“Not to pry unduly,” Brother Genitivi eventually said. “But a question of clarification: _‘the green forest of the sea’_?”

“That’s the literal poetic translation,” Theron explained. “It’s a rainforest, because the air is so thick. But it’s also the forest of Arlathan specifically, because Sylaise looks for a place _‘where all three of the worldly powers met’_ -”

“ _‘Worldly powers’_?” Rosaire asked.

“The earth, the sea, and the sun. Or sky, depending. Elgar’nan was born where the sun and the earth touched heads, and Mythal walked out of the sea.”

“So they don’t have their own gods?” Brother Genitivi asked.

“We don’t worship them, no,” Theron said. “Elgar’nan has some sun things, but he’s not… _important,_ so much. Where all three of them met, though, that’s Arlathan. It was built in a massive clearing- the sky or sun- in the rainforest- the earth- on islands in a lake so large you couldn’t see across it- the sea.

Brother Genitivi _hmm_ ed.

“So there are layers to the meaning _‘of the sea’_ ,” he observed.

“There are layers to everything,” Theron said, and took them into the hallway that led to the Amaranth salon. There was another story there he wanted to tell.

_In the days of our enslavement, there lay then as today in the town of Airothous the villa of Magister Gevinctes. The lady of the House was a mage taken with her power and her position, Lutena. She was cruel and careless and loved of the humans, and her husband Berenicus was a mage of no little talent, though overshadowed by his wife. He brought with him from his family’s estates a woman by the name of Irien, and her young daughter Sabrae, who were made presents to his wife who had them as her personal slaves, serving her in her chambers._

_So Irien slaved in the chambers with her daughter following behind, and beaten if Magister Lutena Gevinctes felt capricious and wished to hurt her mother. When Sabrae came to the age of old enough to reach the highest shelves, the Magisters threw her mother out to the fields and kept Sabrae for the chamber, forbidden to leave._

_But Sabrae knew the importance of family, and snuck out in the night to the quarters of the field slaves to see her mother. And she continued to sneak, dark in the shadows and silent as smoke, as invisible as the Magisters wish their house slaves to be, and would bring what food or healing herbs she could to the field slaves in the night._

_And did time pass, and did Sabrae grow, and did she bring not only food but information of the house, so that there could be slaves in the fields who could escape. The Magisters were furious when slave after slave disappeared past their guards with no trace, but never did they think it was clever quiet Sabrae who slept in a cabinet in their own room who would give them such information and such drugs to make the guards sleep or poisons to make the guards fall._

_And did time pass again, and did Sabrae go down to the field slaves one night and be brought to her mother, who was dying in agony from the bite of a taipan, the shy calm golden snakes of the wine country the field slaves were assigned to kill. Sabrae gave her mother mercy, and then did not come to the field slaves for a time, but listened to the Magisters’ guests and listened to the Magisters’ guards and listened to the Magisters themselves, for knowledge brought freedom and those free could have vengeance and vengeance she would have, for a life unfree and the abuses and the beatings and her mother’s exile and death in the fields._

_And did time pass once more, and the Magisters’ friends whispered of an army come of the south, come to kill the Magisters and burn the empire. Then were there strange elves in the quarters of the field slaves who spoke of Shartan in the west, and asked the field slaves of her for the information to go west. And came slaves of other Magisters to ask the same._

_And so one night did Sabrae go out and walked in the night-shrouded fields in bare feet, seeking the shadows. And there she sat and prayed as her mother had taught her. She prayed to Elgar’nan for her vengeance, and to Andruil for her favor, and to Dirthamen in thanks for her knowledge, and to Falon’din in plea for her mother’s happiness in death._

_Then came to Sabrae a taipan, gold and dark under the moon, and Sabrae gave it her arm and it curled about her neck, and did she walk into the house of the Magisters and hold out her arm above their bed, and did the taipan bite and the venom stopped their hearts._

_So did the slaves of Magister Gevinctus walk away free, and so did Sabrae do unto the other Magisters of the vineyards, and so was she greeted by Shartan as the Taipan, as the Smoke in the Darkness, and so was Sabrae made a lieutenant of the forces._

_And by these means did she hear the promise of Andraste for lands for the People, and did she follow the daughter of Shartan to the south when Andraste was betrayed and Shartan with her, and did bow in worship in Halam’shiral where the daughter struck her father’s standard._

_And did Sabrae Irienes travel with her loyal to the mountains where Andraste’s people dwell beyond and strike her own standard on the overlook of the pass and name it Sabrae’s Choice, and become Ha’tar Sabrae and rule her choice and it’s city-seat of Esa’ir and found her House and train them in her tradition of the bana’raselanala until her death._

“My goodness,” Rosaire said weakly, some moments after Theron had finished. “You even know the names of the Magisters.”

“ _‘To forget is to die’_ ,” Theron said. “It is one of the Twenty-Four Maxims, and it is one we will never ignore. We know who enslaved us. We know where they are from. We know who rules in their name now. We know our homes in the Dales; and the oldest of our lineages we know back to two generations before Shartan.”

“And your lineage?” Brother Genitivi asked politely.

“Esahni was the mother of Irien who was the mother of Sabrae who was the mother of Nintir who was the father of Venirathe who was the father of Tualsyl who was the mother of Nehnabela who was the mother of Suremathe who was the father of Lanunasha who was the mother of Havhen who was the father of Joliseth who was father of Iseholmal who was mother of-”

Brother Genitivi held up his free hand pleadingly.

“There are eleven hundred years between the present day and the granting of the Dales,” he pointed out. “I’m fascinated and deeply impressed, Theron, but we will be standing here for some time.”

“-Radasha who was mother of Falonhaur who was father of Haurnatha who was a great hero of our clan, and descended in Ilthemien who was the last _Ha’tar_ Sabrae and the father of Misedrin who founded our House as Clan Sabrae and was descended in Soleanathe who was father of Mahariel who was _my_ father,” Theron concluded. “Fifty-two generations and about one thousand one hundred and fifty years.”

“My father can’t count that far back,” Rosaire said. “The Theirins can’t. The Valmonts can’t- the _Pentaghasts_ can’t.”

“There are plenty of Magisterial families who can’t,” Brother Genitivi said. “If it truly is age that makes nobility, you’re one of the most noble in the world.”

“It’s not just me,” Theron said. “Everyone else in my clan-”

Because there were so few and he couldn’t think of that right now-

“-but my sister, she’s from Alerion originally, is related to me by blood within the last fifteen generations. We’re _all_ Sabrae’s bloodline. And Merrill’s is from Alerion. Not quite as old as Sabrae’s, but he and his descendants were _ha’taraan_ in the Dales.”

“ _‘Ha’taran’_?”

“A longer _‘a’_ at the end,” Theron corrected Rosaire. “ _Ha’tar_ is the noble title, for the Head of a House. You’d say _‘Lord’_ , I’d suppose, but there’s also no higher titles but the ones we give the gods. So actually- maybe _‘Prince’,_ like the Princes of Starkhaven.”

“And- Esseer?”

“ _‘Eh-sah-ear’._ The small city attached to Sabrae’s Choice. You call it Eziores now.”

Rosaire blanched.

“That’s- Emprise du Lion. That’s- my father- that’s the west stop of Gherlen’s Pass- he- we- that’s where the _villa_ is, that’s where I- _it’s my father’s capital._ ”

“I know,” Theron said, and didn’t break eye contact with him. “How many times did you see Sabrae’s snake in the carvings of the ruins you explored?”

“What about _‘bana’raselanala’_?” Brother Genitivi said, obviously trying to relieve Rosaire.

“It doesn’t have a good translation out of El’vhen. You’d have to say _‘assassins’_ , but assassins are mercenaries. A _bana’raselan_ doesn’t work for money. They work to protect the House and their lands and their honor. So- poisoners, knives in the shadows, ambushes on the road. It’s a long and honored part of our House that lapsed. We had no one left to teach it.”

Brother Genitivi was quiet for a moment.

“Your fiancé-”

“Is a wonderful man who will fit right in with my family and I won’t force him to teach anyone. I’ll _never_ force him. Not on anything.”

“I’m _sorry!_ ” Rosaire burst out.

“I’m not mad at you,” Theron told him. “You didn’t do it.”

“But we _shouldn’t have!_ It’s _yours_ and I can’t- I’m the bastard son, I _can’t-_ ”

“I’ve never expected you to,” Theron said. “We’ll have the Dales back someday, and Sabrae will return to our lands then, with a Lord of Sabrae to sit again in the Choice. It’s clear enough you care and you’re trying. It’s a lot more than I expected when I heard you were being invited. But you wanted to know more about the Dalish from me, and I had to tell you this part of the history before we went any further.”

Rosaire wasn’t meeting his eyes. Theron clasped him just under the jaw and tilted his head up. Twenty-three- that wasn’t so much younger than his own twenty-six, but right at this moment, with a Blight and an Arlship and this history between them, it felt like decades. And Rosaire looked even younger, blinking back tears and trying to school his expression into something that wasn’t abject shame.

“Come tell me about the ruins you’ve seen,” Theron said, tilting his head towards the Amaranth salon. “I’ll make _ise’haurasha_ for you and Brother Genitivi, and tell you what you found, and their proper names.”


	12. Chapter 12

He couldn’t go up high this was Fergus Cousland’s estate he couldn’t just run off this was the best he was going to get this corner of a dark side room while Theron talked politely with the nobles he liked and refused to acknowledge Eamon Guerrin’s existence and he’d promised he’d be _fine_ when his fiancé had expressed concern this morning he was _fine_ he was going to be-

_Parties, sweets, laughter, political currents under the smiles knowing looks once-over assessments lurid glances when no one was looking_

He _had_ to have _some_ nice memory of a party he _had to_ if he couldn’t avoid going there couldn’t he-

_Late summer, unusually cool. A merchant’s party that had spilled out into the garden. Master Valisiti holding his own court while Messere Palince stood and engaged in witty repartee on behalf of his Crow ally._

_There were lots of Crows here tonight, fishing for information rather than using it as cover for a contract. Messere Palince was Master Valisti’s ally. Only he or those he assigned would fulfill a contract in this house. There would not be a breach in the rules. It made Messere Palince’s parties glamorously dangerous. Nobles and merchants and the rich could mingle with Crows and feel safe in their thrills of fear._

_Plenty of courtesans. Salvail had gone off with Lord Hamunti’s wife. There was Taliesin, pretending to be a servant. He passed Rinna, and she shot him a sideways smile and groped him discreetly._

_He had to find someone. He wasn’t allowed not to. But the courtesans knew who were the kindest or easiest or most pleasant in bed and they’d been picked through by the time he’d arrived with Taliesin and Rinna, courtesy of Rinna’s connection to Master Valisti. Later arrival was an honor, but it wasn’t much of an honor if he was going to be stuck with-_

_A new face. Young. Ignored. Beautiful. A Rivaini woman, dark hair curling slightly, in a wonderfully-expensive, modest dress, not hiding her boredom or her scowl from the corner. Looked like she’d been drinking the entire night so far._

_He sidled up. Flattered, prepared for the seduction, turned on the charm-_

_“Oh, **you’re** fun,” the woman told him, outright leering at him for a moment before turning on her own charm, doing her own seduction- someone **knew** how to do this, an unfamiliar rich woman who never properly should have had a trickster’s smile and the glint of conquest in her eyes, but not for power not for money not for influence- for **experience,** for **fun,** for- _

_For he didn’t know what but he **knew** whose bed he was getting into tonight, no one else could tempt him or entice him after this and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pretend when there was **this** woman. _

_He gave her his name started to say something smooth-_

_“Naishe,” she told him, and turned and walked away and threw him a wicked inviting smile over her shoulder and well who was **he** to say no to a lady?_

_He gave her another name, in the cool night, warm and pleased as they drove each other to exhaustion on soft sheets._

_Isabela, isabela, isabela, me isabelanna, what a shame that even a little of your beauty should be so ignored-_

Zevran surfaced from his memories and held himself as he huddled in the corner and tried to calm his breathing and his heart.

If he had to lose himself in something- yes, he could handle it being Isabela. He had plenty of memories of that, Rinna and Tali had yelled at him the next morning for going off with the lady of the house but he’d ignored them and gone back to her, and back, and plenty had been slipping off to see her while her husband was away, for sex and after not too long also for talk and the teaching of knives; but plenty had been at parties and _those_ he could remember safely.

That had been his choice. He had to pick someone at the parties he was sent to, and it was all the better for being able to pick _her._

It had been far harder to go back to the way the party assignments were _supposed_ to be, after he’d killed her husband and Isabela had taken off with the _Siren’s Call_ for a life of the sea.

They’d had a final night together, after he’d killed Luis Palince in his bed. Isabela had walked in right at the beginning and leaned on the doorway and watched as he’d done it, and gone for him as soon as her husband was dead. It had taken them one, two, three, four tries to get back to her room, and then Isabela had gotten up, taken Luis’s papers, and gone off to take the _“prettiest ship in the bay”._

He hadn’t asked if she’d placed the contract, and she hadn’t told him. But she’d given him a pouch of gold coins from Luis’s secret stash and most of the contents of her jewelry box with a final lingering kiss and a whispered: _“I know you’re not getting paid. Stay alive.”_

He’d promised he would and Naishe Palince had disappeared and Zevran had taken Luis’s earring in remembrance of Isabela. The gold he’d hoarded or changed for smaller coin, and the jewelry he’d fenced in far cities as he’d taken new contracts.

There had only been a few pieces left when he’d sauntered down to the docks in Antiva City and flirted with Isabela until she agreed to drop him off in Denerim. He’d thought about returning them, but… she’d told him to stay alive, and he’d gotten on her ship because he wanted to have a goodbye and some sweet memories before he threw himself at the Wardens. He hadn’t wanted to ruin them by tipping her off that he was intending to break his promise.

It had been a relief to see her again in Denerim, and he’d been glad he hadn’t said anything about the contract to her. Then he’d given Theron Luis’s earring, and up on Sundermount in Kirkwall he’d had a moment of trepidation because Isabela would surely recognize it-

She’d pulled him aside and given him a smirk and look and asked very seriously if Theron deserved that earring more than her husband had. His heartfelt _“yes”_ had made her smile.

Go back to the party. Theron. He had to go back to the party. Theron was there. He was going to be safe. He had to go back. He could do this. He’d been hurt so much worse than embarrassment and unwelcome looks. He’d lived through worse. This wouldn’t ruin-

Theron was there and he’d told him once that he’d storm the gates of the Black City if it meant they could have a chance of staying together. A party and bad memories were nothing compared to that. Or the Blight. Or the Crows. Or-

If he’d smiled and lied through things like this before, he could do it again, and he _would._

* * *

Theron hadn’t wanted to say anything while they were at the party, but now that they were home, he had to check.

“Satheraan?”

“I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t seem like that to me.”

“I am,” he said cheerfully, but his smile still looked shallow. It was either that his love had just been socializing too long at the engagement party and had forgotten to take his defenses down, or that he was lying.

Theron took a moment, and breathed, and reminded himself that Satheraan didn’t want him to try to fix everything. It was possible, even very likely, that he hadn’t been _totally_ comfortable at the party and was trying to pretend he was so that he, Theron, didn’t cling onto it and turn this all into another sort-of argument.

“Okay,” he said, and Satheraan looked a little surprised for a moment before everything went back to the same smile.

He’d been right then. Satheraan had been expecting him to push and try to make him feel better. It was an almost guilty feeling, that Satheraan would rather lie about how he was feeling than be honest because of how _he’d_ been reacting, and well-

He needed to talk to someone about this.

Theron changed the fanciest parts of his clothes for something more toned-down, then took Satheraan by the hand and kissed him quickly.

“I’m going to go talk to Alistair.”

“Ah. You should ask him how he is feeling.”

“Has he not been well?”

“It is has been a very stressful time for him lately and you could do some good for him.”

Alistair needed him!

It took some doing to find his friend, but he eventually located him in the hayloft of the stables, after a surprise run-in with Damien cooing at the halla and telling Oriana the story of how they’d been created. He hadn’t known Damien knew some of the myths of the People! He’d have to ask what else he knew.

“Do you like hay?” Theron asked, poking his head into the loft. Alistair jumped, then fidgeted, glancing away.

“Stables remind me of Redcliffe.”

Theron pulled himself into the loft and sat down next to his friend, leaning into his side.

“You know you deserved better.”

“Yeah, well. I _do_ have good memories. Did I ever tell you about Wolf? One of the stable cats. No clue if Wolf was a tom or a queen but that cat was the darkest black I’ve ever seen, all lean and fast and quiet. I was the only one Wolf would ever stay around. Or Penny, she was this old mabari who decided I was her pup, I hoped for a while she’d chosen me but she just decided I needed looking-after, or that’s what Horsemaster Dennet said, and I’d hoped for a bit that he and his wife would adopt me, they were always really nice and giving me food, but they never did.”

“If they were nice I wish they had,” Theron said. “I’d miss you being a Warden, though. I don’t think we would have met if you’d been a horsemaster’s son.”

Alistair glanced away again.

“Yeah, well…”

It sounded like there should have been more, but there wasn’t.

“Are you all right?” Theron asked, trying to lean around to see his expression. “Zevran said I should talk to you-”

Alistair choked on nothing and went wild-eyed, almost banging his head before Theron grabbed him to keep him from shooting to his feet in the wrong place.

“He said you’ve been having a hard time lately but if it’s personal then I won’t press and we can talk about that instead!”

“About _what?_ ” Alistair said frantically.

“I was going to come find you because I need to talk to someone about Zevran.”

That got Alistair focused.

“Is he in trouble? Does he need-”

“No, its _me,_ ” Theron admitted, and failed at not sounding miserable. “He’s not being really honest about his feelings like he used too and it’s my fault because I keep trying to help but I don’t know how to fix it!”

“I can’t help you,” Alistair said.

What?

“But you’ve always had advice or an idea at least-”

“I’ve never been in a relationship you should ask someone else-”

“Why is this differen-”

“Find someone else!”

Alistair sounded almost _angry._ Theron drew back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, trying to be quiet and calming. Regret passed through Alistair’s expression momentarily, quickly followed by others too obscure for him to catch.

“No,” Alistair said, and huddled in the hay.

Confused and worried, Theron left the hayloft to find someone who would listen to him. Tamlen and Merrill, maybe. Or Ashalle.

* * *

It was a small relief to take out her braids at night, relieving the tension on her scalp. Sometimes, on particularly stressful days, it gave her a headache.

This special spring season of court had been very stressful.

Anora raised her brush to her kinked hair, but familiar hands took it firmly from her and started to pull the bristles down a flattened hand of hair.

“Would it surprise you to know that the information was _volunteered_ to me before I could finish my questionings?” Erlina asked.

Anora sighed. It didn’t, particularly.

“The servants like him,” she said. Easy enough to guess. He gave gold and silver like water- as though it were a common resource, but never without the knowledge of how vital it was.

“In general,” Erlina agreed. “He _is_ our Hero. But the Alienage in particular.”

“Of course.”

“It is not really because he is an elf. It helps, to be sure, but even almost exclusively hiring out of the Alienage for his household staff did little more than reinforce their good opinion.”

The brush caught on a snag; Erlina detangled it gently with her fingers.

“He is the one who walked into the Alienage and saved them from slavery in the Imperium-”

 _The slavery my father approved,_ the cold voice whispered to her. It was the same one that had come to her when she’d visited the Amaranthine estate and seen the Warden-Commander lying unconscious in his bed with a wound that had barely missed killing him. It kept worming its way in unexpectedly, and she tried to ignore it. Again. 

“-and came back with charity and back _again_ to protect their gates and their families from the darkspawn. I won’t say they all love him, because that statement has never been true in all of history, but very few would hear a bad word against him. Elf servants are everywhere, and even the ones brought along with households to the estates know what he’s done for the elves here, and in his arling.”

Another universal truth - servants talked.

“So who has been whispering in Eamon’s ear about Zevran?”

“No one.”

Anora took that thought and examined it from a few angles. Erlina finished brushing out her hair and set the brush back on the vanity table.

“So Prince Estefan simply hates him that much,” she said, as they sat on the bed together. “I am glad he is gone. That was _not_ the sort of trouble we needed.”

“It wasn’t the Prince,” Erlina told her, tone grave. “The servants here report hearing gossiping nobles recounting scandal sourced as such, the Prince through Eamon, but the servants assigned to the royal guests say there was never a meeting between them.”

Anora closed her eyes.

“It _was_ Eamon, then.”

“And Isolde. From what I have uncovered, it seems likely that they were using her family’s connections to get their questions to the right ears in Antiva. His servants report expensive gifts sent to the Duforts, perhaps even straight gold, and we know that they are at _least_ on good enough terms to convince her family that their promising young chevalier could win a marriage to you.”

Anora snorted. Reynaud Yann Fay-Dufort would _not_ be her husband.

_“Snake.”_

“A known one, at least,” Erlina pointed out. “It is better to know who and where your enemies are than not to.”

“It is an incredibly roundabout way to attack me. Where is the _point?_ Rumors of Zevran and I are already falling to nothing, because everyone _knows_ that this season is the longest we have ever been in the same vicinity of each other. And if he _wanted_ to imply that I was sleeping with an elf-”

“-I am a much better candidate, and the rumors already exist to boot,” Erlina finished for her. “Yes. But I think attempting to tarnish you was a side benefit for him. It is the Warden-Commander and Zevran himself who have been most hurt.”

Anora almost made a fool of herself asking why Eamon would make such a politically stupid move as attacking the _Hero of Ferelden_ when the obvious answer occurred to her, just in time.

“They are attacking the Warden-Commander,” she said. “For killing their son. He took something they loved away; and they will take something of his. But killing Zevran is return is too direct, and deeply impractical. They barely scraped by Eamon’s declaration at the Landsmeet. Character assassination is the safer option. And the less expensive.”

Suspicion bloomed.

“They didn’t.”

Erlina reached into her dress and pulled out a letter. The wax seal had been slit, not broken, and the parchment itself had sharp, clean folds. This letter had seen very little handling.

“There was a mortally terrified servant in the Guerrin household who learned of the contents of this letter and positioned herself to be in the right place to be given it to deliver in a packet of formal post to the courier. She kept it, and hid it, and brought it here to slip to the Warden-Commander at some unobtrusive moment. I convinced her it would be better served going to the hands of the Queen.”

And once again, Erlina had saved a situation before it could develop.

“Did you-”

“Of course I hired her. She has already left the Redcliffe estate and I will find the best place for her. I am thinking one of the embassies. She _is_ an elf, and idolizes the Warden-Commander as much as anyone else does, but I believe it was more Fereldan outrage that drove her to keep the letter from being sent than anything.”

Because besides everything else, the Arl of Redcliffe had turned on the Champion of Redcliffe. The Warden-Commander had saved his life, his wife’s, his brother’s, and those of everyone in Redcliffe Village, if not the entire arling. Eamon _owed_ the man, and it was the height of dishonor to do what he’d tried to. At the very least he should have arranged a duel on the _real_ issue he had with the Commander instead of involving his fiancé.

“Has he paid wergild for Connor?”

“No,” Erlina said. “But it’s because Eamon never asked.”

Refusing wergild was one thing. It was Eamon’s right as the injured party to demand payment in gold for the loss of his son and heir. From what Anora knew of the Warden-Commander, he would have paid it, and not disputed over a just cause of the death to her ruling.

It was also Eamon’s right to not ask for wergild. By not asking for all these years, he had implicitly agreed that his son’s death had been necessary. But not asking for wergild and looking for revenge from a third party-

A duel on false pretenses and hiring assassins wasn’t _illegal._

But there was legal, and then there was acceptable. Eamon and Isolde had kept to one and _far_ overstepped the other.

Anora opened the letter Eamon had written to the House of Crows enquiring about a contract on Zevran and scanned it over. His first offer on the price of the contract made her eyebrows raise.

“He doesn’t have that kind of money. If this were ten years ago, he’d have enough to pay that. But he has abandoned farms and repairs from the Blight to make.”

“A loan from the Duforts, or perhaps they would pay part of the cost,” Erlina suggested, but didn’t sound very confident about it.

Anora didn’t believe it, either. Shortchanging your lands for your own benefit was another thing that wasn’t illegal, but it was _not_ how you behaved with an arling. Everyone knew that, and knew it well enough that they commiserated with Leonas Bryland about the problem of Habren’s spending and possible cruelty. Everyone had thought he’d eventually name one of his Howe nephews or niece as heir in place of his daughter, but now that they were occupied, there were some wagers on what he’d finally do, because _everyone_ but Habren seemed to know that she wasn’t going to get South Reach. Leonas was in denial about it, but people who knew him well enough knew that he was losing the hope that _somehow_ she’d turn out something like her mother, and slowly coming to terms with the fact that he had to go looking elsewhere.

She closed the letter and tucked it away in a locked letter case kept hidden in a compartment in the wall, disguised by paneling. There were a few other things in there- treasured letters from Cailan, and her father, and one from King Maric.

It was also where she kept the letters the Warden-Commander had collected with her husband’s effects, from Ostagar. The letters that showed Eamon had been prodding Cailan in the direction of Empress Celene.

He hadn’t been this way with Maric. He’d doted on Cailan and never said a word about her where her husband could hear, but she _knew_ that he’d disapproved of her even before their marriage. He hadn’t approved of her father being named Teyrn, even if it only came with Gwaren and fishing and logging villages, a reasonable income for nobility but nothing even half so grand as Redcliffe’s farm and horse money. He’d been eyeing her ever since she’d become betrothed to Cailan and started taking a royal role in politics. He hadn’t been able to speak against her with Cailan as King, and with Cailan dead he couldn’t overthrow her with her bastard half-brother, and with her as Queen he’d yet to succeed in undermining, discrediting, or outright overthrowing her.

It was not a chance she’d allow him to have. Ferelden needed strong, trustworthy, honorable leaders, now more than ever.

Eamon could only wriggle into that criteria if being rich made you strong. Maybe it did in Orlais and other foreign places, but mere money could only get you so far in Ferelden. It was still _far,_ to be sure. But trust and honor and respect was worth more.

He’d tried going to the Crows over his son’s death five years after the fact. Delayed vengeance was still vengeance; and he had been cheated out of more than an heir during the Blight. He’d nearly won a Kingdom, and in the long-term, for politics, for the Game he played, that was a much greater loss. His retribution would come, eventually.

If the Guerrins were going to do things the Orlesian way, well. She could and _would_ reciprocate.

“I want him gone,” she told Erlina. “Him and Isolde. We will all be safer with him politically destroyed.  _D_ _o not_ use his plotting against the Warden-Commander. I will have nothing cast suspicion on him or Zevran; and I have _no_ desire to try capturing and sentencing the Warden-Commander for the murder of the Guerrins. He escaped Fort Drakon once, and I am not fool enough to believe the Wardens would let this pass. Or Zevran. He _might_ spare me for the good of the country, so long as the Warden-Commander was retrieved before he was executed, but we would lose him.”

“And you don’t want to lose a friend,” Erlina surmised.

Anora sighed.

“It would be bad for politics, as well.”

“You like him. You can’t fool me. I like him too, but he-”

There was a pause. It was a familiar one, heard and used every day as they went from Queen and Personal Companion to what made those roles possible in the first place - friends.

“-well, Annie, he scares the shit out of me.”

That was unexpected.

“He does?”

“The Crows are the best,” Erlina said simply. “There’s no denying it. There are other assassins. The House of Repose. The Orphetasi. Bards can and will kill, of course. But you don’t mess with the Crows.”

“Zevran and the Wardens seem to have.”

“Wardens, they fight darkspawn,” her friend said dismissively. “They fought the _Archdemon._ There’s something going on behind all those secrets and it’s probably magic and you and I both know it. They’re something special. But Crows are just… skill. Pure skill. The Game - If you want someone ruined, you get a Bard. If you want a someone eliminated, you get the House of Repose. If you want someone run to the other side of Thedas, you get Orphetasi. If you want someone _dead,_ you get Crows. Crows get contracts for _Magisters,_ for blood mages with demons and abominations and mansions full of guards and magical traps, and they _complete them._ Crows have killed generals in the middle of their fortresses at the heights of wars, Emperors and Empresses of Orlais guarded by every sense the Game sharpens and Bards and chevaliers besides, _Qunari on Par Vollen,_ and _lived._ ”

“Zevran has done none of that, if only because no people of those descriptions have been assassinated in living memory,” Anora pointed out.

“But Rendon Howe specifically asked for the best they had, and was willing to reinforce the request with a _year’s_ worth of revenue from the amaranth dye trade. They sent Zevran. Zevran who walked off into the Blight without any Wardens and survived long enough to make his attempt. Zevran who broke into Fort Drakon and fought his way through the garrison two ways and walked out the front gates in only a couple hours. Zevran who’s run with the Wardens through a Blight and the Deep Roads and _who knows_ what the Warden-Commander gets up to and _keeps up,_ and wears light armor and kills up close and has _absolutely_ come out of _many_ fights with darkspawn blood and viscera on himself but _has not_ contracted the Taint.”

“He had help with Fort Drakon,” was about all Anora could say to that.

“Everyone saw the Wardens and the mage,” Erlina countered. “But we _know_ Zevran was there because they’ve _all_ said he was, and _no one ever saw him._ People were just _dead._ Just like other Crows are _‘just dead’_.”   

Anora inhaled sharply.

“You have proof on Antiva.”

“No,” Erlina had to admit. “But I have damning coincidences. He leaves for Antiva five months after the Blight ends. After long enough for a ship to sail that distance, Crows from House _Arainai_ start showing up dead, clearly killed by another Crow. The Grandmaster of the Crows, _Arainai_ again, is assassinated. After long enough for a ship to sail that distance, he’s back in Amaranthine, and there are no more dead Crows that have the rest of them whispering until he left on his _‘personal business’_. The entire organization is set to paranoia when Grandmasters die as if struck down by the Maker Himself over Satinalia. Masters of Talon Houses are suddenly dead. And then the Warden-Commander and most of the people he fought the Blight with tear through Antiva City and most of what was left of the Crows’ highest echelon to rescue him from the Crows. He comes back, he has Crow children, another Crow follows him from Antiva, and he’s dead as soon as Zevran finds out where he is. He’s proved he can kill other Crows as easily as the Warden-Commander can knock Teagan on his ass. Zevran was a Crow who turned on the Crows and the Crows couldn’t turn on him back _._ ”

“He had help with that,” was, again, the only thing Anora could really say.

 “The House of Crows is the next thing to gone, right now,” Erlina continued. “The Warden-Commander just broke through the veneer. They would have already bounced back from this if they hadn’t been driven to new levels of paranoia and had a command structure that didn’t keep getting sabotaged. There were some whispers, very quiet and _very_ localized to the outsiders Crows typically used, about a _‘black shadow of the Crows’_ , but it’s wriggled out and I heard about it. Others will too, soon. The Crows ruled Antiva for the last four hundred years. They were feared for a couple Ages before that. They had their knives so firmly at the throats of powers great and small that _no one_ could touch them. Now one winter and they’re being slaughtered in public and the royal family is moving on them. The Crows _own_ the Campanas, and everyone knew it. When the Warden-Commander got attacked, I spent every waking second waiting for the news to come that the family line had been terminated in our guest apartments and I _knew_ that it would mean we had only, oh, _a week_ before civil war broke out in Antiva over which family would take the Campana’s place, and the Waking Sea trade imploded because the merchant Houses were angling for political profit and not coin. Nobody can dock in Kirkwall. It’s good for us, because Denerim and Amaranthine and Highever-”

“-couldn’t compete with Kirkwall the same way,” Anora picked up. “But our port revenue has always been more from taxes on ships passing through than high-profit trade happening on their docks. Taking in the ships Kirkwall has always gotten is money we sorely need. If no ships came through on the routes between Orlais and Antiva, we’d just bleed ourselves dry of coin and resources to Orlais, because they would hitch the prices so high without competition from Antiva.”

“Zevran Revasina could have taken it up personally with Prince Estefan and fucked over a lot of Thedas,” Erlina said, after a short silence of contemplating the horror they’d avoided. “And you know he’s not stupid enough _not_ to have known that the Crows would throw everything off the balance we’re used to, because he went at it systematically enough to _do it_ in the first place. He understands politics far too well to also know that he could finish off the Campanas, _and_ with the Crows in disarray, _something_ would give, and it’d echo everywhere. He could have done it. He cut through most of the Fort Drakon garrison to save the Warden-Commander. The Warden-Commander fought a city full of Crows to get him back. If he hadn’t found Zevran alive, I am _certain_ there would not have been any Crows for Prince Estefan to drag out of hiding in Antiva City. I’m also certain that Zevran would go after anyone who cost him the Commander just as fiercely as he did the Crows. And given the way the Commander doesn’t seem to care a lot about what he does so long as Zevran or some sort of vengeance for him was at the end of it, I really don’t think that it would matter at all to Zevran who he killed or how much it would destabilize, if he could get the same for the Commander.”

Anora admitted this truth to herself silently.

“If he wanted to kill _you,_ ” Erlina continued. “There would be a fucking thing I or anyone else could do about it. He could _announce it,_ right out, stand in the middle of court and say he was going to do it and say when and how, and he’d _still_ get it done, and we wouldn’t catch him, and we never would.”

She shuddered.

“I’ve had _nightmares_ about that, Annie,” she said. “So yeah, Zevran scares the shit out of me. Even more so when he insists he’s not a Crow.”

“I believe he does it because he wants, very much, his life here with the Warden-Commander; and because he is trying to emphasize that he has absolutely no plans for assassinating any of us.”

“Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me from tearing myself apart whenever he gets close to you,” Erlina admitted. “You have no idea how many times he could have killed you in the last six years. I lost track after I got to a hundred, and that’s just the ways I know a very good Bard or a Gentleman or Lady Reposer could do it, because I have _no idea_ what he really knows about killing. I think about the fact that he’s had so many opportunities and hasn’t yet, and it’s what keeps me from screaming.”

The silence was heavy after that. Too heavy for a pre-bedtime conversation. Anora was looking for something lighter when Erlina spoke again.

“Do you still want me to observe lunch tomorrow?”

That wasn’t really _lighter,_ but at least it wasn’t the assassination capabilities of Zevran Revasina.

“I do,” Anora said, and she must have given some tell, something she’d managed to not get trained out of during the lessons from her Bard, because Erlina’s gaze sharpened, then melted again into concern.

“Annie,” she said softly, placing a hand atop hers on the bed cover. “What is it?”

“I know which one of them I want, Lina,” Anora said, keeping her composure even as things clenched in her chest. “But I can’t- I have to marry for Ferelden.”

Erlina’s hand tightened.

“I can sell any decision you make. But I have to know which.”

“Tomorrow. I want your opinion-”

Anora took a deep breath.

“I have to know if you see in him what I do.”

* * *

He couldn’t avoid breakfast and morning practice with Theron, but Alistair was bound and determined to stay away from his… friend… as much as possible.

At least until he’d gotten himself sorted out. Tackled his heart into submission and all. Maybe if he stayed away because Theron wasn’t _his,_ the rest of him would get the message.

Problem was, there weren’t many places to stay away from others on the estate unless he wanted to confine himself to his rooms, and he didn’t. That made him too easy to find. And now Theron knew about the hayloft.

He was in a far corner of the garden, trying to convince himself to go out to town, when Morrigan found him.

Or rather, Morrigan and Leliana, which was a very _interesting_ combination.

“ _There_ you are,” Morrigan said, staff thumping against the dirt meaningfully as she stalked towards him. “‘Twas _far_ too much effort to have Theron and Zevran watch Kieran with Diego and Tiar for you _not_ to be available.”

Alistair looked to Leliana.

“What’s this about?”

“I have no idea,” she said as Morrigan _tch_ ed at being blatantly overlooked. “I was just arriving and found Morrigan stomping about. She said that Hawke isn’t here, so I thought I would come see you again.”

Alistair was pretty sure Marian _was_ here, since she didn’t like going places without Merrill and Merrill was laying low in the estate until- something, he wasn’t really sure.

Interesting that Morrigan liked Marian enough to cover for her.

“So….?”

“ _Explain_ yourself,” Morrigan demanded. “Theron came to _me_ for _emotional advice_ yesterday. Because you turned him away!”

“I couldn’t help him.”

“Oh, _couldn’t you?_ Seemed simple enough a task for _you._ Or was it another who was at him about Zevran over the winter? _Strange_ how you are somehow unqualified to opine on the matter _now._ ”

“Well I am!”

“A lack of previous romantic involvement was never an obstacle to you in the past!”

“Look, _I couldn’t help,_ okay? What does it even matter to you! Leave me alone!”

“I do not take orders from _you._ This is a matter of my concern because while I may not be the sort of friend he _deserves,_ I am one of the friends he _has,_ and I will not allow other people’s _petty stupidities_ to keep him from having the help he desires!”

“And _I_ know well enough when I _can’t give him that,_ so _shove off_ and go bother someone else! It’s none of your business what he and I decide so stay out of it!”

“He is engaged to Zevran you know,” Leliana said, and Alistair went hot and cold all at once.

“So?” he managed to squeak, because Leliana was a bard _and_ the Left Hand of the Divine, what if she _knew things._

“Because you are arguing about his well-being like rival lovers,” she said with an amused smile.

Oh. Well. She wasn’t - they weren’t! And she didn’t know! That was just a friendly observation. Good. Good!

They were both looking at him.

“You are very red, Alistair,” Leliana said. Alistair floundered for something to say, but before he even had an idea Morrigan’s sharp, amazed _“Hah!_ ” cut through.

“You are _in love_ with him!”

“I-”

“Oh _dear,_ ” Leliana said, taking a second, searching look at him. “Oh Alistair, I am so sorry.”

There wasn’t any use denying it. He knew he wouldn’t even be able to get through the words.

“How did you even _know?_ ” he asked instead, because if he was being so obvious about it then he _really_ needed to stop.

Morrigan looked off to the side.

“You are not the _only_ one,” she said scathingly.

“You too?” Leliana asked. “I _had_ wondered. You always seemed very close, during the Blight.”

“And _you?_ ”

“I had a crush,” she admitted. “But I knew it would have never worked.”

“He would _make_ it work!” Morrigan declared, sounding actually _insulted_ that she could have thought Theron wouldn’t have.

“No,” Leliana said. “We both believe too deeply to truly honor each other’s faiths. It would have ended badly and I knew it. We were much better being friends, as you and he are.”

Morrigan scoffed.

“He is the _father_ of my _son._ ”

“Well, he isn’t marrying you, is he?”

“We are _more_ than _friends._ ”

“Having had sex does not confer that on you.”

“ _Hardly!_ Were it such, he would be _‘more than friends’_ with his _sister,_ his brother’s best friend, his brother’s best friend’s now-wife as well as _everyone else_ of their age group in Sabrae, an elf trapper from near Gwaren who passed through for a few seasons, Keeper Lanaya-”

_“Keeper Lanaya?”_

“ _-before_ she was Keeper, naturally - two or three of the older Hahrens during an Arlath’vhen, a stranger Sabrae hosted one night who may or may not have been an incorporated Spirit of Curiosity, and a reputably-beautiful young elf apostate woman with a babe-in-arms Sabrae gave shelter to for a winter but whom they could not convince to join the Dalish.”

That was a list. Alistair tried not to be jealous of everyone on it. He had a closer relationship with Theron than most of them ever had, and dear Maker was he really resenting _strangers_ for having had sex with Theron, when chastity was hardly a Dalish virtue and it simply made sense with Theron as he was, so happy when he made other people happy and free with his touches and hugs and kisses and smiles, he would have been kind to them all and so very earnest about the act of it-

“Alistair? Are you-?”

Leliana’s voice and his own thoughts were drowned out by Morrigan leaning in and saying, voice a smooth, low whisper hinting of dark rooms and rich sensuality: “Is it imaginings that turn you red? I have known how he runs hands along flesh and the warmth of him so close and how he can lose his breath-”

Alistair fled because, Andraste have mercy on him, he wasn’t sure if never knowing or having Morrigan give him the details would hurt more.

* * *

She had to dismiss the court soon, so that the nobility could attend to their holdings for plantings. That meant she had to pick someone to marry, the sooner the better.

The only question - it was just that the only two candidates she would consider weren’t exactly ideal. She had her pick of Orlesian and a bastard, or very young and ambitious.

It was good that she’d established lunch together as a tradition, but today, she deviated. She would dine twice, once with each of them.

Maxwell Trevelyan was first. Talk passed inconsequentially, the topics of his extended family and their current doings filling the time until a light dessert was delivered.

That was her self-given cue to ask the real questions.

“What do you think of Rosaire Desrochers?” she asked him, taking a small spoonful of the sorbet.

“He’s nice,” Maxwell answered easily. “It’s unfortunate he was born the way he was - if he’d been born a Trevelyan, we would have sent him to the Chantry to learn. He probably would have turned out a lot like Brother Genitivi. He’s a scholar - or an explorer, maybe? He likes knowing things, and I’ve never seen anyone else be so interested in subjects I’d never even thought of.”

“Oh?”

“Like the ruins and relics of the heathen Dales. Or the history of Bards and assassins. He doesn’t really care about the Chant or Chantry history, which is a shame. I bet he’d do great work analyzing texts. He wouldn’t turn to that now though. He belongs in a university somewhere, or a library.”

“It’s been a thought of mine to create a university for Ferelden,” Anora dropped into the conversation, as though it was a recurring flight of fancy and not a dream she’d had since her first tutor had told her they existed, her plans drafted over and over in private as she grew and learned and refined her understanding of the world. Her university was something she’d only ever shared with Erlina before. It wouldn’t have been practical enough for her father, or glorious enough for her husband. “What do you think?”

Maxwell paused, and took a few moments to think about it.

“It would be hard to compete with the University of Orlais and the Retoria and Academia in the Imperium,” he said. “It would take many years to compete with anyone else, if only because you would need high incentives to entice people away from Orlais. Though if Antiva continues on the path it seems to be on, it could be possible to pick up some of their educated class and their libraries. But no matter how slow the start, or small the size, or the quality of education, Orlais would see it as an attack on their prestige. The only question would be whether they laugh it off or try to strangle the project in its infancy.”

“That sounds like something my father might have said,” Anora remarked. It wasn’t _quite_ true. He would have said something about badly-spent money and being proud of the Fereldan way and mutter darkly about Orlesians. “I think about him often, and wonder about what could have been. I have been curious - what is your opinion on him? In my first year I heard the opinions of Fereldans so often I could dream of them.”

“He was a hero,” Maxwell said smoothly. “And he should be remembered for the good he did and the service he gave his country. In the end he was a good man in a terrible situation, whom I suspect was desperate to keep his people safe. People have done worse, facing a Blight.”

 _Except he refused to believe it was a Blight even as we hemorrhaged people to the Free Marches and our farmlands rotted and our Banns and Freemen died to the horde,_ the honest part of her said. She’d gotten a politician’s answer, as she’d expected.

“Truth enough,” she replied. “The Antivan throne has yet to recover their power from when the Fourth Blight swept into their country. Ferelden was very lucky, and I have always known that. Still, I have times where I find myself uncertain if he would be proud of me.”

“Of course he would, Your Highness.”

“Oh?” she asked. “Even when I gave land to the Dalish? He was always of the opinion that Fereldan land belonged in Ferelden lands, and that we should _never_ give it up.”

“It was an extraordinary time that required an extraordinary reward. And I’d think it was a net gain in the end, Your Highness. Some hilly, rocky land that’s difficult to farm, the ruins of an unused fortress, and the edges of an inhospitable swampland - quite a small cost, in the long run, to prevent groups of Dalish wandering about in your lands proper. Less clashing in the woods and the farmlands, and it is a reward big enough that you could extract favors for and goodwill towards Ferelden for some time, if you were delicate about it.”

Anora steered the conversation into the territory of political negotiation, which was where Maxwell had the most sheer natural aptitude, and let the talk meander until a sufficient amount of time had passed. They parted pleasantly, and she had some time to breathe and prepare for her second lunch, which was to follow the same pattern as the first.

“What do you think of Maxwell Trevelyan?”

Rosaire sat there and thought about it.

“He’s a politician,” he finally said. “If he was a brother of mine Father would send him to the Imperial court and be beside himself with glee when he played the Game. He might have even tried to pressure him into being a Bard instead of me.”

“He wanted you to be a Bard?”

“I’m not the type,” Rosaire said, almost apologetic. “I might be able to do the sneaking, and the singing and the finding secrets would be fun. But I don’t want to ruin people. And I don’t want to kill. I’m not a warrior or a soldier or a chevalier or any sort of fighter, and I know it. In the Game, someone always eventually dies. It probably would be me.”

“So what would you do with your life, if not be a Bard? Roam about in the Emprise and take notes on all the old ruins?”

“That sounds wonderful. But I don’t think- it’s not really appreciated, except by a very small group. And two of them are _here,_ at your court. It’s the largest concentration of scholarly minds to gather in human society to think about the Dalish since there was politics between the Dales and the Empire. There are four in Antiva who would care, and three in Nevarra, and one at the University and someone who we’re all pretty sure writes under a pseudonym, but we’re not sure if they’re Marcher or Orlesian.”

“ _‘We’_?” Anora asked, intrigued.

“Oh, we all exchange letters,” Rosaire told her. “I started by writing Professor Bram Kenric, at the University. Really he’s interested in the Nevarran Accord and the Inquisition, but the Old Dales overlaps some. The others are like that, too. The Dalish, or elves, are tangential but important to what they’re _really_ interested in. Professor Kenric wrote me into the correspondence circle, and we’ve been writing ever since. I could get very good recommendations to the University, if I could go, and I’d hope to study under Professor Kenric. I wouldn’t really be able to talk about what I _really_ want to study until I was established, but he’d help me until then.”

International academic contacts were not something Anora had expected from him. He had an in at the University, and depending on who he was writing in Antiva and Nevarra, his _potential_ network of contacts could spread through all of Thedas, as you worked off of introductions from friends and friends-of-friends.

“ _If_ you could go to the University?” she asked.

Rosaire’s face fell.

“Father doesn’t see the point, if I won’t be a Bard. I still hope, but-”

He shrugged.

“I’ll probably be made Assessor of the Marquisate for the Emprise, because, as Father says, I’ve _‘trekked all over it getting to ruins and scaled mountains no one else is crazy enough to look twice at’_. It would mean I _have_ to travel around. I could keep doing my work and publish as an amateur. _That,_ Father wouldn’t mind at all. He loves me, and he doesn’t want to pay for the University when it would be more practical to give me a purse and have me make maps and estimate taxable revenue while I’m out searching. He wants me to be happy, and he’s right at least that the University is involved in the Game too, and I’d have to play it there to get anywhere.”

“That seems counterproductive for a center of learning and research,” Anora commiserated. “I’ve had a long fascination with the University myself, though I _knew_ I could never go. I dreamed of making one in Ferelden, instead.”

Saying that Rosaire’s expression _‘brightened’_ was a bit like saying snowmelt _‘trickled’_ out of the Frostbacks in the spring.

“That would be wonderful! There’s so many old documents here - though I don’t know what survived the Blight, so much was lost - but what is left could be properly studied, and there are people who still speak Alamarri and it’s not the _same_ as what the oldest copies of the Chant we have are in but it’s definitely closer and there’s a lot to be said about the cultural mindset a language makes, and besides that there’s _plenty_ of history here, if only in ruins but you can learn a lot from ruins, most of the Old Dales was lost except in the Emprise because people tore down old structures for building material and the same things have happened to the old Imperium ruins but Ferelden has the largest extant original sections of the Imperial Highway, because they’re newer than the rest and they’re actually better than the roads in a lot of places because of the rain, and you can _really_ study things that predate Chantry influence since it was Calenhad who really endorsed them and brought them to power, there’s plenty of places I bet where older things are kept and there’s always the Chasind and the Avvar.”

“And you would talk to them, would you?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips as she imagined Rosaire peppering Avvari with questions. He’d proclaimed himself no fighter, so it should be worrying, but it was somehow amusing.

“Brother Genitivi did,” Rosaire pointed out. “And _he’s_ all right. It was Andrasteans who ultimately tried to kill him, even if they were also a dragon cult. He just got dinner with the Avvar. Even the Dalish only kept him stuck in the rope snare he’d gotten caught in until they stopped being willing to answer questions and turned him out. The Arl-Commander said they must have done it because they recognized he was a sort of Hahren.”

“I recall that being on his list of titles,” Anora said, remembering the first day of court. She hadn’t expected him to include Dalish ones- she hadn’t even _known_ he had Dalish titles.

It could be worth something to know what they meant, but it could mean losing more of Erlina’s people if the wrong questions were asked.

Rosaire nodded seriously.

“It’s very important. They’re the historians of the Dalish, and the priests, and a lot like that one person in the village everyone goes to help resolve conflicts or unload their worries to. They’re the- they give advice, and know the laws and customs and traditions. The Arl-Commander has recited some stories from their histories for Brother Genitivi and I. He seems a lot like a Chanter when he does it. He was trained to memorize _all_ the history of Sabrae, _all_ the history the Dalish share, _all_ the lineages of everyone in it, _all_ the- the liturgies, I guess, the prayers and the rituals and when and how to do them. He’s sort of - he keeps the soul of Sabrae. That’s how it sounded when he explained it to me, because I didn’t know any of that from the ruins. That’s not the sort of things people write down, it’s things everyone just _knows._ I thought, when he was explaining it- I don’t know. But every clan has a priest and historian in the Hahren, an organizer and a mage in the Keeper, and a navigator and weaponsmaster in the Second. It’s just, I _know_ the Dalish Clans come from the Houses of the Old Dales, and the Houses were like their own little countries, like the Free Marches or- or the Alamarri Banns and Teyrns before Calenhad. Revered Mother - Hahren. Seneschal - Keeper. General - Second.”

Anora tried to reflect on that, but it was a job that would take more than the moment’s pause she could politely or practically have in this conversation. She put it away for later, and simply said: “It seems I know less than I thought about the Dalish, though they are entrenched on our southern border now.”

“Most people know less about the Dalish than they think. _I_ knew I know next to nothing about the Dalish, but I didn’t really know how much I _didn’t_ know until I talked with the Arl-Commander.”

He looked her straight in the eyes.

“It was a good thing you did, giving them land,” he told her. “We - humans, Andrasteans, Orlesians, whomever - they were promised land and we broke that promise. It’s not what they had before, but it was the honorable thing to do, and it’s the most kindness and respect they’ve been shown in a long time. I bet it counts for a lot. You should ask the Arl-Commander.”

“I should ask him _many_ things,” Anora sighed, thinking about her list of grievances and unanswered questions, but Rosaire nodded again.

“They won’t _actually_ be fundamentally different, you know. It might be hard to understand right away, but we’re all people. We all want things like knowing those we love are happy and cared for, and we’ll have food, and a warm dry place to live, and be safe from attack, and that we’ll be treated decently. How we think about it and go about it can be really different, is all. You just have to be patient and listen.”

“Which I have not done,” Anora admitted. “I would excuse it as a family trait, for my father had trouble with that as well, but I would feel it was a disservice to his memory.”

Rosaire’s face did some very interesting things, contorting through trying to stay neutral but wanting to grimace.

“Whatever you are thinking, it’s likely not the worst I’ve heard. Tell me.”

“I didn’t know him and I really don’t know a lot _about_ him,” Rosaire said. “But it seems like he was scared. His King who was also the son of his best friend and his son-in-law had been killed, and there were darkspawn everywhere. The chevaliers and Wardens King Cailan had asked for were camped in Emprise, so I heard about things. He was scared and he didn’t listen when people were telling him it was a Blight, and he just kept shouting them down, I heard.”

He had. Her father had done a lot of shouting, in his last year.

“And he had _Rendon Howe_ as a close advisor - I know he wasn’t liked in Ferelden but nobody liked him in Orlais or the Free Marches either. I heard his son only got squired in the Marches because of a favor someone owed his mother and hadn’t repaid before she died. And-”

He grimaced again, and hesitated, but continued without prompting.

“The Tevene slavers. I heard about them. He was selling his own people, and in _Denerim-_ ”

He bit the inside of his lip.

“ _‘All men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings’_ ,” he recited. “And- and I know it’s a Dissonant Verse and they call it heresy but it _wasn’t_ right up until the March on the Old Dales so it was politics and not faith.”

He took a deep breath.

“ _‘Andraste said to Shartan: “Truly the Maker has called you as He called me, to be a Light for your People. The host you see before you march, bearing his will north to Minrathous, City of Magisters, and we shall tear down the unassailable gates, **and set all the slaves free.”**_ ”

Anora was familiar with the Heresy of Shartan as an academic thing, a bit of Chantry history you learned but never really discussed, like any of the other Heresies pepper throughout the Ages. It was against the Chant and the Divine, and that was all that needed saying on the matter. She’d never met anyone who’d actually read it, or believed it.

But here Rosaire was, sitting stiff and awkward and nervous across the table, still biting the inside of his lip and likely clenching his fists on the fabric of his pants but meeting her eyes and trying for wary defiance anyway.

“The Arl-Commander said he met spirits, as part of a test to get to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He said Andraste’s mother was there, and her best friend from childhood. And the Aegis, and a zealot Alamarri mage. And Maferath, and Hessarian, and Hessarian’s wife. And Shartan. He was The Liberator, who died in his lone charge at Andraste’s pyre to free her. They were friends, or at least allies, and the people who are supposed to hold her words and her Chant and the Maker’s Will that _she_ spoke cut it all out, to have their war on the Old Dales and I don’t know _why_ but I know that that's when Orlais, at least, started selling elves into slavery to the Imperium. Your father didn’t know it was strictly against Andraste’s word. But he didn’t think about the fact that Andraste was a slave too, once; and so were a lot of the Old Alamarri. A lot of people don’t think about that.”

Anora put her glass of sorbet down. She’d ordered cherry for the second lunch instead of apple, as had followed the first. The taste of it was sharp on her tongue, reminding her of what he’d said.

_Be patient. And listen._

“We don’t,” she finally said. “But it was less disregard for respecting people than the fact that this is the land of Andraste, and we are proud to stand against the Imperium, than the presence of slavery. Selling our elves as slaves to them is _supporting_ them.”

“It was _wrong._ ”

She wanted to open her mouth and say something about that. It _was_ illegal, and it _was_ unworthy of the man her father had been, and it _was_ dishonorable and besmirched the good name of Ferelden.

The only other person who would have ever brought this up to her, like this, would have been the Warden-Commander.

Him, she could have looked in the eye, and found a spark of anger, or betrayal, and a voice that said _he’s an elf, he’s too close to it, he’s a Warden, he was falsely accused a traitor - he was too emotional and it was a bad situation but that didn’t excuse execution without real judgement, didn’t excuse **murder** in the **Landsmeet.**_

“It was,” she agreed quietly, because she couldn’t do that, with Rosaire.

If Cailan had discovered- if _she_ had been Queen, and deaths and history had fallen out differently, and she’d found that Urien Kendalls had been using his position as Arl of Denerim to sell elves to Tevene slavers, she would have had him hauled to Fort Drakon, then presented before her throne and she would have passed down cold, furious judgement and he would have been executed, because that was _not what you did with lordship._ Not in Ferelden. They were the descendants of the Alamarri, proud and free and steadfast and honorable, and lordship was _earned._ The Freemen declared their allegiance to a Bann, and a Freeman who enough others turned to would become a Bann. The Banns declared for and raised an Arl or a Teyrn, or at least they _had_ and it was a matter of descent now, yes, but if you weren’t good enough, if you didn’t fulfill the standard-

Rendon Howe had not been the first Ferelden noble to be killed for failing his duties, and he would not be the last. Other countries hunted down and executed those who killed Kings; Ferelden celebrated the uprising against King Arland and its leaders were heroes and Anora had had a caution upon her coronation, as had Cailan and Maric and down, down the line, about what would happen if she went mad with power the same way.

But it had been her father.

And he was supposed to have been better than that. She remembered a time when the elf servants _wanted_ to serve her father, a rare level of respect and trust that had driven some to walk halfway across the country and through the Brecilian to come looking for employment, because it was _better,_ with the Hero of River Dane. Her nanny had been one such, a woman from somewhere on the Imperial Highway between Lothering and South Reach, and she’d told her plenty of stories about the Night Elves. Her _father’s_ Night Elves, and she’d been proud to serve, proud enough to leave everything she knew and reject mercenary work and the freedom that came with it because Loghain Mac Tir had a little girl who needed someone to watch her.

Sancha had been the one to teach her how to shoot a bow, too. It had been the elf woman’s favored weapon, and had served her well in the rebellion and with the Night Elves. It had also been Sancha who had found Erlina running from her last job as a Bard, a nasty one about the current Orlesian embassy that had gone wrong, and brought her to the Gwaren estate in Denerim when Anora had been fourteen.

It had been her father who had come to look over this _Orlesian_ elf in his estate, and huffed, and scowled, and told Erlina that his daughter was going to be Queen and needed to know the important things no tutor could teach. How to read a person. How to know when someone was playing her. How to play the Game, if she had to.

He’d said that if Erlina accepted the job, the problem with the Orlesian embassy would go away, at least so long as she stayed in Ferelden, because he could put in a word with the King and Maric would politely dismiss them and politicly request a new ambassador and staff.

If she didn’t accept the job, he could only protect her while she stayed within the Estate, and she’d have to earn her keep some other way. Erlina had taken the job and the two of them had never been apart since.

Her father was not supposed to have invited _Tevene slavers_ to the _Alienage,_ where Night Elf veterans and surviving family lived, where he had standing orders to Seneschal to leave things too worn out to be used in the Estate but in reasonable repair as proper Andrastean charity, where their most loyal and hardworking servants returned to in the night and took the tailings of dinner and the occasional little extras her father willfully ignored them sneaking away. 

She couldn’t think about this right now.

“What else don’t I know about the Dalish?” she asked Rosaire.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably everything but the stereotypes.”

A moment of quiet.

“You should talk to him,” Rosaire told her. “He likes talking about his people. It means a lot to him. He’d be happy to share.”

“You get along with him, don’t you?”

Rosaire smiled widely, and nodded. She would have known just by the way his eyes lit up.

She steered the conversation away to lighter topics, as she had Maxwell’s, and all the while the threads of a plan were coming together.

Dalish. The Warden-Commander. Zevran. Questions that needed answering.

She had one last one for Rosaire, before he left.

“Do you know how the Dalish…”

Anora wasn’t quite sure what, exactly, she was looking for, just that she’d know when she heard it. It made phrasing a question hard.

“How they _are?_ What they…”

She waved her hand vaguely. It was supremely unqueenlike, and even she didn’t quite know what it meant.

Rosaire frowned, brow furrowed in thought as he too tried to puzzle out what the question was.

“I’m not really sure what you’re asking for,” he finally admitted. “But if it’s something like- like-”

He sighed out his nose.

“The thing. The thing is. When Brother Genitivi and I went to see him, the first thing we asked about was the mural right in the front hall. It was the founding of Arlathan by the Dalish gods. Then he took us directly to another one. And he-”

Rosaire’s face pinched in pain and shame. It was not an expression Anora had been anticipating.

“It was the story of Sabrae Irienes. The woman who founded his Clan Sabrae back when it was House Sabrae in the Dales. He knows _exactly_ who the Magisters are who enslaved her, and where they lived. I looked it up. House Gevinctes, in the wine country, vineyard villa in Airothous. The family line goes back into the Ancient Imperium, long before Andraste. Known hazard of the area is the taipan, which carries the deadliest venom in the world. The story matches. And after he was finished with it, he stood there and very nearly started reciting his entire paternal lineage as far back as it could be traced. All fifty-two generations of it.”

Only fifty generations had passed since the time of Andraste.

“Brother Genitivi convinced him to only give the important parts. It started at Sabrae Irienes’s grandmother and went through her right down to the last _Ha’tar_ Sabrae and his son who founded the House as a Clan. He translated _h_ _a’tar_ as _‘Lord’_ first, but then said it didn’t really properly convey the authority, because _ha’tar_ is the highest title anyone who isn’t a god can have. He translated it again as _‘Prince’_. _‘Like the Princes of Starkhaven’_ , is what he said.”

His expression intensified, the pain deepening.

“And then he looked me right in the face and told me that Eziores, the marquisial seat for the Emprise, was rightly called Esa’ir and it was Sabrae’s capital before it was my father’s. I- I stood there, sick to my stomach because it should have been _his_ but he’s only even standing there in front of me because there was a Blight and he saved a country he should have been holding embassies and arranging mutual court visits with and if he hadn’t done that just about anybody would have said he was worthless and people _still_ look down on him because he’s Dalish and all _I_ did was get born and wander around Emprise and if everyone else died it would go to me and not him and there is _no possible_ way that I could give it back to him and his House instead and I tried to beg his forgiveness, but he wouldn’t hear it. _“We’ll have the Dales back,”_ is what he said. Not ‘ _if’. ‘When’_ and _‘will’_. It’s not a question for him. He didn’t need my apology because I wasn’t responsible for it and I cared enough to be interested and it _didn’t matter,_ because it would all be right again and Sabrae would sit in Esa’ir and all the old Houses would be _ha’taraan_ again. It is a fact. It will happen. It’s not even like- _‘when the Maker returns’_ or _‘when the Chant of Light is sung in all corners of Thedas’_. _That’s_ a goal. It’s a promise. Maybe we’ll never earn the Maker again. It’s- it’s _‘when Empress Celene dies, they will crown a new monarch, and Orlais will continue’_.”

The breath he took could be more like a gasp, or a bit of a sob.

“ _It is real to them._ It’s just a matter of time. _‘To forget is to die’_. He quoted that at us. It’s one of the Twenty-Four Maxims, one of the truths they were told by their gods. Now, when they become adults, there’s an oath they make. It ends: _‘never again shall we submit_ ’. Submitting to some other power, and forgetting their own knowledge. That’s everything they strive to never, ever let happen. Remembering and staying themselves, to the point where they will fight to the death and take everything with them - that’s what makes them Dalish. That’s why people remember _‘the blood-soaked Dale plain, sanctified by the sacrifice to the Maker, honored in the rising sun’_ , and the Exalted March as a series of Dalish generals and warriors and mages taking glorious last stands and scouting groups facing down armies. They’ll run to fight another day, but if you corner them, they will slaughter everything you throw at them until someone lands a killing blow or they drop dead from exhaustion. Half the stories he told us were about that. At _least_ half.”

His eyes dropped to the table.

“I watched the Warden-Commander duel,” Rosaire said. “When I was watching, all I could think was that it was beautifully executed and it explained some of the more martial things I’ve found in the Emprise. But when I went to record my day that night, I didn’t end up writing that. I wrote: _‘I have seen the essence of the Dalish’_. That’s all. If you really want to know about the Dalish, you’ll get no one better than him.”

 Rosaire was dismissed, and when the door closed Anora let her head hang heavy and dropped it to her crossed arms on the table.

“The Rose of Ferelden, the Golden Queen,” she heard Erlina say behind her. “She doesn’t need a politician, a player in the Game. She needs someone who she can trust will sit next to her, and say _‘this is wrong’_ , and not let it go.”

She settled her hands on Anora’s arms and bent down, enveloping her in a hug. They had a few moments. It was all right to be vulnerable.

“He’s what I was waiting Cailan to grow up to be,” Anora whispered, and knew Erlina heard her. “He could have been a great king, like his father was, if he hadn’t gotten himself stuck on the idea that doing good is a victory and victories are glorious, so therefore he needed to seek glory. If he’d survived Ostagar, he’d have gone riding all over the country trying to help people, and he’d be doing it in that _stupid_ golden armor of his and he’d struggle through whatever he needed to, because that makes the victory all the sweeter, and the harder-won the victory the greater the glory earned, and he’d go riding off into the sunset to find the next person to hero at and he’d _never notice_ that the world is more complicated than that.”

“Cailan wouldn’t tell you were wrong because it was _wrong,_ ” Erlina agreed. “He’d say you were wrong if you didn’t fit into the script in his head.”

“He liked things simple. It was nice to come to, at the end of a day. He could strip everything off a problem until he could see a story and then he’d have an answer, just like that.”

Erlina hugged her a little tighter.

“They were pretty crap answers, though, Annie. Remember the pedigree problem?”     

Anora did, and she laughed quietly. It was wet, and when she focused on her breath, she found her nose a bit clogged.

“They were _always_ crap answers,” she agreed. “But it was part of his charm, Lina. He was exactly the sort of king to sit on the biggest charger in the parade and wave to the crowds. He _loved_ it. His heart was in all the right places.”

“Well, Annie,” Erlina said conversationally. “Seems like Rosaire’s got his _head_ in all the right places too- so one up for Orlais, Dog Queen.”

Anora laughed louder, and sat up, and Erlina helped her clean up her composure.

“Ferelden’s still winning, you know,” she said, wiping at her eyes with her fingers.

“Well, look, if you’d traded half the Blight for half the Game, we’d all be even.”

“Would that I could. But we’d _still_ win, because we have puppies.”

“Puppies are tough competition,” Erlina agreed, nodding seriously. “No dancing slipper is safe. You’d have half Orlais in hysterics within the hour, and none of them would ever recover. You could ride right in and they’d never know, because they’d be too ashamed to show their faces when everyone knew they had itty bitty teeny teeth marks on their leather soles.”

“The perfect invasion,” Anora intoned. “Glory be to the Wolves of Dane, who have coursed the Imperial Lion and piddled on his claws.”

Their straight expressions cracked at the same time, and a minute was lost to stifled giggling. They ended with Anora’s head resting on Erlina’s shoulder, their hands clasped together loosely over their touching knees.

“He’s Orlesian,” Anora said. “They’ll never forgive me. Arl Mallory will yell the mountains down and Elfstanna will give me that _look_.”

“Say something to Mallory and Elfstanna about more favorable tariffs over the Frostbacks and better grace areas on the border, since Emprise is _right there_ down the whole west side. Mallory will get too busy plotting how far she can push the grace areas to yell, and Elfstanna will finally _relax_ about having the money to build herself an Arl’s seat.”

 “Everyone’s going to think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Annie, that is the most Ferelden Orlesian I’ve ever heard of. You know he’s been heard to happily compare the weather here to the weather in Emprise?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Apparently the air here is _‘crisp’_ and the temperature is _‘refreshing’_ and the mud is much better than slush, because it won’t melt through your boots and the mud will actually come off. Give him some furs and a cute puppy and nobody will mind the accent. If he can be almost in tears at the thought of not being able to give back land lost in a war seven Ages ago to the people who used to own it, he’ll cry his heart out if people talk about the Occupation.”

Anora sighed.

“Speaking of the Dales.”

“When?”

“Is lunch tomorrow too soon?”

Erlina thought about it.

“Better. Anything I should prepare for?”

“Zevran _and_ the Commander,” Anora said. “I want the private dining, only your people, and I don’t want them in earshot. I want you joining us, and I need whatever the Commander submitted for his lineage for the title validations.”

“Something _big,_ then.”

“Well,” Anora said, with a tired, twisted smile as she raised her head from Erlina’s shoulder. “If I’m going to marry an Orlesian, I might as well go for sheer audacity. Give them enough to yell about that most of the arguing will be between them on what’s worse.”

“Really, what should I be worried about?”

“Nothing specific yet. It depends on what answers they give me to our questions.”

Erlina’s eyes lit up.

“You’ve finally got something.”

“Rosaire is going to be my husband,” Anora said, and it was… good, to hear. “I should start considering his opinions on subjects he’s more learned on than I, don’t you agree?”

* * *

Mistress Archieros would be leaving.

They weren’t talking about it, but they both knew enough about how servants worked to notice that Mistress Archieros wasn’t going to be around much longer, because Lady Amell had received her bannorn and would be going there soon, and Lady Bethany was getting married to a Teyrn, and Serrah Hawke didn’t seem like the sort of woman to want a lady’s maid.

So Mistress Archieros was going to be going away. Very far away. They wouldn’t see her again.

Tiar didn’t like it.

But that was how things worked. The only thing to do was to spend as much time around her as possible.

It was convenient that they could do that _and_ keep watch over Messere Daganiri.

Watching Messere Daganiri was _important._ The express reasons, the reasons Diego had given when they were pretending they hadn’t already decided to do it, now that _Maestra_ Salvail was dead, was because he was _Maestra_ Revasina’s brother. He’d be upset if he got hurt again. Mistress Archieros would be as well, because they liked each other. So would Mistress Daganiri.

The real reason, the one they hadn’t voiced to each other, was that Messere Daganiri had tried to protect them. Tiar had learned it from hearing other people talking. Messere Daganiri had held _Maestra_ Salvail up on the stairs and hit him with a book and gotten in a fight with him _even though_ he knew that _Maestra_ Salvail was a Crow and that he’d probably end up killed, or really hurt. But he’d done it anyway, because he’d thought _Maestra_ Salvail had been sent after Diego and herself.

Thinking about him getting hurt made her tense and anxious inside. He wasn’t trained. He shouldn’t fight.

So they guarded him. Right now, that meant lurking on rooftops around the West Market and watching Messere Daganiri take an early leave after the daily lesson to escort Mistress Archieros while she shopped.

Watching them was frustrating. It was easy work, which was nice. They could talk or play watching games on the roofs without sacrificing the concentration necessary to keep surveillance. It was just that they kept _stopping_ at random points, and standing there. There was nothing interesting about those spots. They weren’t near stalls or stores, so it wasn’t like they were considering anything. They just _looked_ at each other, and then Messere Daganiri would turn away very quickly and go very proper and they’d keep walking.

_Why._

 It took Diego sneaking into an alley and observing them, hidden, to explain it.

“He’s having _feelings,_ ” he told her earnestly, when he returned.

It maybe _was_ something like _Maestra_ Revasina and the Arl-Commander, Tiar decided, scrutinizing them as Mistress Archieros _finally_ finished her shopping. But it didn’t seem as comfortable as it was between the two of them. It must have been Messere Daganini’s personality.

They shadowed their teacher back home, and then doubled back to the West Market, as they’d decided to do earlier in the day, when they’d learned that Messere Daganiri and Mistress Archieros were planning this trip. They’d used their guard time to do some surveillance and inspection to prepare for this.

Windows were easy, and they were Fereldan windows. That meant no complicated locks, no smooth-polished sills, no spikes, nothing to deter someone who’d climbed up the wall or down from the roof from getting into the Redcliffe Estate.

The Arl of Redcliffe had hurt _Maestra_ Revasina. It was much, much worse than when Nehna had done it. Retribution would have to be proportionate, and they’d learned from their first revenge that targeting was important.

So while the Arl and his wife were out somewhere, she and Diego were taking the opportunity to break in and surveil the private rooms.

One entrance from the interior hall, that opened into a sitting area, which they stopped up with a rock that would buy them the seconds they needed to get out the windows if someone came in unexpectedly. Unlike back home, it wasn’t situated between the Arl’s office and the bedroom. You went through the sitting room to the bedroom, and then you had your choice of three doors. The two to the right, when you stood by the bedroom window, went to a small bathing chamber and then the Arlessa’s parlor. The door to the left led to the Arl’s office.

They dismissed the Arlessa’s parlor immediately. The bathing chamber had potential, but there was nothing like getting someone in their own bed, where they slept, where they always had to feel safe.

Tiar left Diego to inspect the bedroom so he could determine the best sorts of traps to make and went to look over the office. It wouldn’t be as frightening to, say, dump ink all over his desk and ruin every bit of his correspondence and books, but it would be costly and annoying and, if he kept accounting books here like Antivans did, potentially devastating.

A quick scan of the desk showed one locked drawer. That would be where the _important_ things were kept. A few seconds and Tiar had picked it open, revealing a soft leather letter case. She took it out, memorized the knot as she untied the flap, and drew the papers out. Sure enough, the top one was a ledger sheet, noting expenses and income - no, just expenses, and shuffling some money around. It looked like he was trying to cut money to pay for something. The last entry was a large sum of gold that he’d unevenly divided. The larger portion had been added to whatever he was trying to gather. It was a _lot,_ what could be that expensive that he didn’t already have?

The second page was a letter from someone in Orlais. It was addressed to the Arlessa, and called her _‘cousin’_ , and thanked her for handling things for her son in advance in Denerim and the expense purse was enclosed.

The third page made her want to destroy something.

_From Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe in Ferelden, to the House of Crows in Antiva City._

_I sent a letter requesting the purchase of a contract some time ago,_ _and I did not hear back. I am writing again to inform you that I sincerely hope that the Crow recently killed in Denerim by your own Zevran Arainai was **not** your answer to my query. I would remind you that payment will not be forthcoming, as he targeted the wrong person, and did not succeed in the assassination besides. _

_For clarification, in the hopes that this was some form of misunderstanding, here again are my requested terms of the contract:_

_600 gold for the death of Zevran Arainai._

_This is a very simple request. Perhaps my phrasing in my previous request was too complicated or unclear. I am paying **not** for the death of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, but to strike a blow against him. Given the trouble both have caused you, I suppose I should have thought that your House may wish to take the opportunity. If you succeed in killing both, know that I am only paying for the death of Arainai- however, if the means of his death is sufficiently grievous to the Warden-Commander, I am willing to negotiate to pay extra. _

The letter wasn’t finished, and behind it were other draft attempts, but it was _enough._

Tiar put it all back how she’d found it, and she and Diego left, unblocking the sitting room door.

She didn’t say anything about what she’d found to Diego. Diego was - _attached._ He’d started calling _Maestra_ Revasina _‘Papa’_ when it was just them, and referring to him like that when she and he talked about him. That word, it made them both happy.

She wasn’t sure what she felt about it, still. But _no one_ was taking _Maestra_ Revasina away from them - from Diego, who- who _loved him._ And Mistress Daganiri would cry and- and everything would be _awful_ and _Maestra_ Revasina protected them.

Tiar couldn’t do less for him than she did for Messere Daganiri.

* * *

She was not brave.

A brave woman would have fought for her husband and - not live, likely, not against Crows, but it would have been an honorable death.

A brave woman would have run from Antiva and the Crows and found a new clan to join. A brave woman would have stayed on the streets or lived the life of a wandering elf farmhand rather than take her son into a whorehouse. A brave woman would have put her fear aside and clung to painful hope and gone searching in a country she hated for a son she’d lost. A brave woman would have learned how to stop clutching at the rags of her heart and stitched it back up again like the Crafter that she was and gone on to love her other children and raise them well. A brave woman would have married the one who’d stayed with her through it all, because a brave woman would have known herself. A brave woman wouldn’t have taken a quarter-century to realize that most of what she’d done was hurt the people who were the ones she should have been protecting, because she would have seen better.

A brave woman would have already begged forgiveness of those she could, and admitted her love.

But Nehna Revasina was not a brave woman, so she was sitting in Eirlin’s stall in the back corner, the halla’s head resting her lap, as Irothal’s halla nuzzled at her hair from over the stall partition, trying to build up what courage she had.

Things were easier, with halla. They’d always been there for her.

“Have I messed it up too much to apologize, do you think?” she asked Eirlin. He pressed up against her hand and gently butted her stomach.

Tanis…

She and her were a mess, and Nehna knew it was her fault. A viciously honest answer, one that took into account their entire history, showed very well where the balance fell.

Tanis had taken care of Satheraan when she hadn’t been able to. Tanis had loved Damien when she couldn’t. Tanis had taken Damien as her own son when Nehna had been too ashamed to take him to the Dalish. Tanis had held onto hope through years of hearing nothing from her that she’d come visit in Lydes. Tanis had accepted Sylaise’s flame from her, when Nehna hadn’t really followed up on it. She’d had plenty of chances to, now that they were actually living in the same place again, but she just _hadn’t._

Tanis had been there for her for decades, from the Summer Lily right up to this very second. Tanis had held her when she cried, listened to every painful and unfair thing she’d said, taken her to bed when she’d needed comfort, and taken on her responsibilities when she couldn’t or wouldn’t and had taken every hit Nehna had come at her with, intentional or not.

Yes, she’d been suffering for years. But Tanis had been as well, and when was the last time she’d been there when Tanis needed her? When the Duchess of Lydes had thrown them out for Damien being mixed blood? No. They could have walked to the nearest town without her.

Had it really been escaping from the chevalier that had bought them? _That_ long ago?

Mythal, she owed such a debt.

The only way she could start paying it, the only fair thing to Tanis, was to do what she’d asked and stop running.

But it was hard.

Eirlin raised his head, ears perking up. The other halla stopped nuzzling her hair and pressed eagerly against the front of her stall.

“See, they can smell it from here,” Nehna heard Damien say.

“Or they’ve just learned they get attention when we come,” someone else suggested. A woman. Who would Damien be coming out to visit the halla with?

“They are by far intelligent enough to know both. Yes, beauties, _hello,_ you get treats today-”

She’d never heard Damien talk like that, soft and cooing. Nehna stood when Eirlin, and caught Damien by surprise. He had a soft expression, gentle and happy, and was holding out a piece of honeycomb.

Eirlin delicately took it out of his hand while they stared at each other. Damien was trying to rearrange his expression into professional, and in a sudden startling moment, Nehna realized that it reminded her of the way Salladin had looked at her.

“Can we talk?” she asked, because this could be a first step.

“I suppose,” Damien answered, fully professional now. The woman with him, the Amell’s maid, took the basket of honeycombs and spring flowers from him, and started quietly parceling out the blossoms one by one as Nehna and Damien withdrew to the corner.

They spent another moment just staring at each other.

“Is your mother mad at me?” Nehna asked.

Professional Damien did not scowl, but the tiny downturn of the corners of his mouth was just as bad.

“ _Amazingly,_ no.”

“But I’ve hurt her.”

“Yes. Yes you have. She’s deserved better than _you_ all these years.”

If there was anything Nehna had learned in her life, it was that people rarely got what they deserved.

Yet another moment.

“Was that all?”

“If you hum at the halla low, and with your mouth open, they like that,” Nehna told him, on impulse. “It calms them down. It reminds them of the sound mother halla make at fawns.”

She wasn’t sure if Damien would thank her or not, and didn’t really want to receive one if he decided to, so she turned around and left the stables.

It wasn’t hard to find Tanis. She was in the set of rooms set aside for the children - and the rest of the Arl’s family, now that they were here - with her lap loom, quietly demonstrating it to Lady Merrill while Lady Morrigan and her son played a game with colored mage lights on the floor.

Tanis looked up when she entered, and asked: “Nehna, have you seen Tiar? Diego has been following the staff around all morning and said he hasn’t seen her.”

“I don’t know where she is. Can- can I talk to you?”

Tanis handed Lady Merrill her loom and stood, tugging her skirts into arrangement, and walked with her out into the hall. Nehna led them to Tanis’s room, and closed the door behind them before turning to face Tanis, who was waiting patiently for her speak - as always.

“I’m sorry,” Nehna told her.

“What for?” Tanis asked, face scrunching in puzzlement.

“A lot of things,” Nehna said. “Everything. I’ve been unfair to you since- since I turned to drink in Antiva. You’ve been putting up on me and waiting for me and it’s like you said, all I’ve done is run away, and you didn’t deserve that. I couldn’t _exactly_ stay. We were right about that, at least. Lydes was better for you, and the Sundering Sea was better for me. But I should have stayed in contact. I should have come to see you earlier. I shouldn’t have come and just dumped my problems on you and left. Or come and then not stay. I- I carved Sylaise’s flame for you in the Dales, and I told you why I did. But I haven’t lived up to it and I _should_ have. I should have handled myself and my problems better. I should have talked to other people about them but I _didn’t._ I stayed stuck in myself.”

“Nehna,” Tanis said softly, reaching for her. “It’s all right. I understand. It _hurts_ you. I’ll be there for you, no matter how long-”

“And I should be there for you in return, and I haven’t been.”

“Your problems are deeper than mine-”

 _“Still,”_ Nehna pressed. “Tanis - I’ve thought, for a long time, that I was broken, or, or too damaged, by what happened to Adan. And Satheraan. And that was why I couldn’t love my children.”

“You aren’t broken. Damaged - well. It’s understandable, and I _know_ you’re getting better. You made your company, you have friends, you’ve _found_ Satheraan and-”

“I should have known better and if I’d been a _good friend_ and a decent person I would have realized years ago that that was _wrong_ and that the problem was _me.”_

“You couldn’t,” Tanis said. “It’s in the past. _I understand._ It’s all right.”

 _“It’s not,”_ Nehna insisted. “I wasn’t _thinking_ right and I _should have_ because I _knew_ I could go to you and I _knew-_ I _felt._ With you. _After_ Adan. _And_ after Satheraan, I _still_ cared about you. And then we separated after we got away from the chevalier and I’ve been fucking it all up since!”

“Nehna-”

“ _Please_ stop trying to tell me it’s all right, Tanis, _it’s not_ and if you don’t hold me accountable for how I’ve hurt you I don’t think _I_ can and then I won’t _change_ anything I’ll just keep sitting around and _thinking_ about it and I’ve been doing that for _years!_ ”

Tanis squeezed her hands.

“I think this is where I quote your son,” she told Nehna. “I’m not going to be mad at you because you’re mad at yourself, Nehna.”

This wasn’t getting them anywhere. They were just doing the _same thing_ as they always did.

“Fine,” Nehna said. “Fine. Don’t be mad for what’s happened. You forgive me. Fine. But _don’t_ when I do it again.”

Tanis frowned at her.

“You can’t tell me how to feel,” she said, tone sharpening. “I can forgive you if I want and I _do_ and I’m going to _keep_ choosing it, because you need me and we’ve bene through too much and I won’t-”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Words failed her, or she swallowed them, but the hardness of determination in her eyes filled it in.

Tanis wasn’t going to leave her, and really? Nehna thought that was something else she should have realized long before; or at least _noticed_ that she knew before she’d gotten tangled up in herself this time around. If Tanis hadn’t left yet, there wasn’t much else that Nehna could do to run her off.

“Damien told me you deserve better than me.”

Tanis sighed, still frowning.

“He should know better than to say that out-”

“No, he’s right,” Nehna cut her off. “You could do better than me. I haven’t treated you properly. If I had been, I would have-”

She dropped her gaze to Tanis’s chest, where she knew her friend kept Sylaise’s flame hidden under her clothes.

“-I would have told you properly what’s supposed to accompany that. Tanis-”

Nehna dug up the memory of a dinner in her room at the Summer Lily, dulled by time and soft-edged with the happiness and relief of that particular night. Of what had been said and shared between them, the moment when they’d become who they _really_ were to each other- Tanis and not Jacqina, Nehna and not Nina- as Nehna had held Tanis’s thick black hair in her hands.

“-Tanis nin Zagan-miri of the Khaghti,” Nehna said, and tears welled up in Tanis’s eyes and started to drip down her cheeks. How long had it been since someone had called her the name she’d been born with? Long before Lydes, when she’d pressed _‘Zagan-miri’_ into _‘Daganiri’_ to sound acceptable. How long since anyone had called her Khaghti, of the people she’d been born into and grown up in and been forced to abandon, and not Antivan? “I’ve loved you since you told me your real name and I’ve never said it and I’ve never honored it like I should and I want to try better but I don’t know how good I can be and I’m _sorry._ ”  

Tanis stepped closer and reached up. They settled easily into Nehna’s arms on her waist and Tanis’s arms around Nehna’s neck. It was too easy for something they’d never done before.

“Nehna Revasina, I have loved you since you told me _your_ real name, and I- I-”

She pulled her arms back so she could try to wipe her tears away. There were too many for that, so Nehna drew her closer.

“Please,” Tanis whispered against her. “Please don’t run again.”

Nehna knew she couldn’t give up Mont-de-glace and the Sundering Sea and her company; and Tanis wouldn’t ask her to. They both understood this- there was a difference between _‘leaving’_ and _‘running’_.

“I won’t,” Nehna promised. “What do you want me to do to prove it?”

Tanis mumbled something. Nehna couldn’t understand it, and had to step back.

“What?” she asked, and then realized she hadn’t needed to. Tanis had a hand pressed against her chest, where Sylaise’s flame hung beneath her dress.

That was _easy._ Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have thought so, but they’d said- they’d finally said it. They couldn’t pretend any longer, and it had been decades, and things - it would never be all right, what had happened the first time. But things were better, and they always would be.

“ _Ma taasha_ ,” Nehna said solemnly, placing her own hand over Tanis’s. “ _Un’bellanaris_.”

“I don’t,” Tanis sniffed wetly, trying to compose herself. “I don’t know what that means.”

“ _‘My lady’,_ ” she translated. “ _‘Forever’_.”

It took a moment, and a few hitches of breath, but Tanis’s face broke out into a smile and she almost managed to make the laugh come through the tears.

“A merchant’s wife,” Tanis said, reaching for Nehna again. “Forty-six years unmarried, and now I’m a merchant’s wife. My son is grown and _now-_ the only thing that would make it more respectable would be to have a Chantry ceremony, but they’d never marry the two of us.”

“Well,” Nehna said, leaning in for the impending kiss. “Fuck the Chantry.”

* * *

Anora took an hour before lunch was scheduled to review her points, consider how to steer conversation, and looking over the lineage the Arl-Commander had provided when her request for the family lines of the established nobility had gone out. It was… far more extensive than she’d expected. And took much far more parchment.

Of course, given her guests, the plan was deviated from as soon as they were brought in.

“You seem very happy today, Zevran.”

He beamed at her, or rather, continued beaming but now in her direction.

“My mother has finally married!”

“Good fortune to her and her-?”

“Wife,” Zevran provided. “It is beyond me why they hadn’t before, but! It is never too late!”

“It is not,” Anora agreed, and bade them to sit. The Arl-Commander was eyeing Erlina, who was actually sitting with them at the table for the meal, and definitely noticed how the servants who brought in lunch were all elves.

And vacated the room immediately once all the food had been brought, as per their orders.

“Before we move to the main business I wish to discuss,” she said. “Arl-Commander.”

“I haven’t done anything since the last time you yelled at me,” he said immediately. Anora resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t believe that.

“I wish to hear you recite your paternal lineage, beginning with yourself.”

He gave her a suspicious look.

“I sent my family history to you like you wanted,” he said. “On both sides.”

“You did,” she acknowledged, and tapped the stack of parchment next to her. “It is _very_ extensive. Regardless. A recitation.”

The look he gave as he began wasn’t _quite_ a glare.

“Theron of Clan Sabrae, son of Mahariel, son of - his father’s family or his mother’s family?”

Anora checked which lineage he’d recorded first.

“His father’s.”

“-Soleanathe, son of Isthaeri, daughter of Rashan, daughter of Linnarel, daughter of Thenlas- mother or father?”

“Mother,” Anora chose.

“-son of Dhavasahngar - mother or-”

“Both.”

“-whose mother was Leilani, daughter of Alhanvenieran, son of Mienis, daughter of Hanedrin, son of Ilshan, son of Iveani; and whose father was Haleisal, son of Terise, daughter Dhearas, daughter of Thessaron, son of Lasera, daughter again of Iveani, son of Ilthelan-”

“And now your grandmother’s family.”

“Theron of Clan Sabrae, son of Mahariel, son of Nesara, daughter of Thelan, son of Yara, son of Halera, daughter of Dianisahnla, daughter of Athras, son of Emadys, daughter of Onathra, son of Revas, son of Dheramanras, daughter of Isaron, son again of Iveani, son of Ilthelan, son of Belannaris, daughter of Sauajua, daughter of Esemalas, son of Linnon, daughter of Alasnierelan, son of Olasenaste, son of Enansevari, daughter of Ghimyashem, daughter of Halerelin, daughter of Adahllen, son of Danathir, son of Rajbana, son of Fenoris, daughter of Misedrin, son of Ilthemien, son of Evbana, daughter of Kyris, daughter of Inar, son of Inaera, daughter of Nanisa, daughter of Isenatha, son of Elgarise, son of Haurnatha, daughter of Falonhaur, son of Radasha, daughter of Iseholmal, daughter of Joliseth, son of Havhen, son of Lanunasha, daughter of Suremathe, son of Nehnabela, daughter of Tualsyl, daughter of Venirathe, son of Nintir, son of Sabrae, daughter of Irien, daughter of Esahni who is the earliest of our People known through the inhumanity of the Tevenes.”

Anora tapped the pile with a finger. She _could_ keep testing him, but- he’d born out Rosaire’s claims when he gave the recitation perfectly, no matter where she’d interrupted him or what she’d asked.

“Very well,” she decided.

“What was _that?_ ” the Arl-Commander demanded.

“I called you here for lunch to discuss a proposition,” Anora informed them. “Your time here at court has been troublesome, and _you,_ Arl-Commander - well. We have spoken previously about your stewardship of Amaranthine. I _wish_ to trust you.”

He was outright glaring at her now. Zevran, at least, was sitting quietly and waiting.

“But this is _difficult_ when I have no knowledge of what exactly you _do,_ or why you go where you go, or what the reasons for all of it are. And I, in turn, would like both of you to trust me.”

The Arl-Commander opened his mouth, but thankfully, Zevran placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Thwarted, the Arl-Commander picked up his drink and scowled at her over the top of the cup.

“So what is your proposal, Your Royal Highness?”

“The two of you tell me what happened in Kirkwall and Antiva. I, in turn, will go with you to the Dalish to open official diplomatic relations with the intention of installing an embassy here in Denerim.”

The Arl-Commander didn’t _quite_ choke on his drink, but it was a near thing. The sound of him slamming the cup down on the table was just as gratifying, in conjunction with the stricken expression on his face.

“Well,” Zevran said cheerfully. It was at least a little bit of an act, but Anora sensed that it was for his fiancé’s benefit, and not for hers. “How unexpected!”

The Arl-Commander tugged insistently on his sleeve and they turned to each other, heads close, and the Arl-Commander started speaking in - well, it would have to be his language. She didn’t understand any of it besides the sporadic instances of names and places, but it was darkly amusing to watch him at war with himself over whether or not to accept her proposal.

Erlina leaned over to her while their guests were distracted.

“Interesting tactic,” she whispered.

“I doubt that anything less would work,” Anora whispered back, and took the opportunity of the unintelligible conversation across the table from her to start eating lunch.

She was reasonably confident that the Arl-Commander would accept her terms. What Rosaire had said seemed to be true, and if the memory of the Dalish was so long that they remembered generations so easily and spoke of reclaiming the Dales as a when and not an if, Anora had no doubt this was the largest offer she could make besides giving them land in the first place.

After all, if, oh, Nevarra had come during the Occupation and said they still considered Ferelden a country separate from Orlais, Nevarra would have been their new best friend.

“You mean it?” the Arl-Commander demanded after a few minutes.

She gave him a look.

“Did I _‘mean it’_ about granting Ostagar and the Hinterlands to your people?”

A moment’s pause, and then he looked over at Zevran again. It wasn’t an expression Anora had been anticipating. It was concern, and pain, and care, and his eyes tightened when Zevran gave him a slight nod.

“We stop if Zevran gets upset and we can keep going when he feels ready to,” the Arl-Commander told her. “And you had better keep to what you promised.”

 _That_ called for an answering frown.

“I am _Ferelden,_ Arl-Commander. My word is my honor.”

“I _will_ fight you,” he warned.

 _“Theron,”_ Zevran sighed.

“I would expect nothing less,” Anora said. “Now- where will you begin?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, despite the accord they’d struck, so it was Zevran who began.

“Shortly after Summersday last year, Nathaniel Howe received a letter from his sister. It was addressed to a man who had died in the darkspawn attack on the Vigil, and it was through this that he learned that his sister was alive and that she believed _him_ dead. By the end of the month we had put together a group to fetch her from Kirkwall, and arrived on the first of Kingsway. It was meant to be a short trip, but-”

He sighed.

“-it is things like this that have decided Theron’s friends on the fact that he is not allowed to travel alone. A situation is inevitably more complicated when he actually arrives somewhere.”

“There was a Taint source in Kirkwall,” the Arl-Commander said. “So we ended up staying to look for it. We called for more Wardens and searched the city. We found some people who could point us in the right direction. One of the expeditions that set out from Kirkwall to explore the Deep Roads when the darkspawn were still preoccupied here found Tainted lyrium.”

 _“Tainted lyrium?”_ she had to interrupt, because if ever there were two dangerous things that didn’t need combining-

“When it was found, it drove one of the members of the expedition mad. He ran off with it. Our information said that he’d sold it before he was killed, but we knew where he’d lived. We - Zevran and I, and Ser Tabris - went to search his house to see if there were clues, and-”

His jaw clamped shut, and a he couldn’t quite stay still through the flinch. Zevran slipped an arm through his and leaned into his shoulder. He kept his eyes closed as he continued the story.

“We were surprised by a blood Magister. She decided that three elves would be a nice catch, and that Theron especially would make a good catch.”

 _That_ was something that she should have known earlier. It was her _responsibility_ as Queen to address a situation when it involved a foreign attack on her own nobility.

“Who?” she asked, already reviewing her schedule and coming up with ideas for confronting the Imperium’s ambassador.

“She is dead,” Zevran told her. “And it was not-”

“She didn’t know who we were,” the Arl-Commander said, and it was low and wrathful, quiet, even as he stared at the table as though he could will the wood to contort and splinter. “She didn’t _care._ She just saw that Zevran was- _pretty,_ and that _I’m_ Dalish, and-”

Zevran reached over with his other arm to give him a brief hug when his fiancé’s rage cost him his words. His eyes were still closed, but the Arl-Commander’s had flashes of blue in them. It was a testament to how well they knew each other that Zevran opened his eyes and turned his head, shifting from hugging his fiancé to gently trail his free hand down the Arl-Commander’s face, murmuring something that mad the man get up from his chair suddenly and stalk towards the wall.

The blow he gave the wall probably would have broken a man’s face, but here it just made the Arl-Commander growl in pain through clenched teeth.

Zevran was at his side in an instant, and Anora listened to them long enough to hear the quiet exchange of _“Because I couldn’t break the wall”_ and _“But you can break your **hand** ” _before ignoring them in favor of her thoughts, to give them their privacy.

So here was the origin of his temper, it seemed - a blood Magister bent on slavery who had actually managed to capture him. Rosaire’s conversation came back to mind. _‘Slavery’_ and _‘Dalish’_ did not go together.

Erlina nudged her with her foot, and Anora glanced over. Erlina had written something on the paper she’d brought for taking notes on.

 _‘Ask about the pretty and Dalish’_ , it advised. She heeded it as soon as the Arl-Commander had composed himself enough to sit at the table again, carefully stretching his hand out.

“And why would being Dalish influence her decision?”

“It would have been an accomplishment.”

It was Zevran who answered her, instead of the Arl-Commander. 

“There has not-”

He asked something of his fiancé quickly.

“There has not been an adult Dalish in slavery in the Imperium since the Houses became Clans,” Zevran explained. “At least that the Dalish themselves know of. If slavers try to take you, you must fight them so fiercely that it is you or they who die. If you are overpowered, you must then escape, or die trying. If there is no opportunity to escape, then the only honorable thing to do is to commit suicide.”

 “And if you do?” Erlina asked.

“Then you are no longer Dalish, but an exile; and you can never return to the clans.”

“You are dead to your family,” the Arl-Commander said. “You are nameless. No clan will shelter you. If you try to return, you are to be treated as we would any other demon trying to wear a clanmate’s face to gain entry. You will be killed, and all will be shamed. It is better for your clan to presume you honorably dead than confront them with - _that._ ”

Anora considered it a moment.

“Rosaire was telling me what he learned of the Dalish from you, Commander,” she said. “These seem odd laws for a people who fight so hard to preserve themselves.”

“If you are captured then you are already lost,” he spat, harsh and bitter. “You have _submitted._ You have _forgotten_ what your ancestors gave, so that you would live free, you _dishonor_ all the Dalish-”

“Thankfully it did not come to anything so drastic in Kirkwall,” Zevran cut in, and Anora would let this go - but more had been said than she thought the Arl-Commander had meant to. He would not be the first person she’d known to lash out in self-loathing as they tried to fix the mistakes they were convinced they’d made. “We were rescued. But, ah - not _quite_ in time.”

“Yet you are all here in Denerim now.”

“After three incredibly harrowing days, which I have no memory of, the entire situation was resolved. It was - well, it has been said already that the Magister was also a blood mage. Blood mages make thralls, and so was I. Unfortunately _killing_ the Magister did not break the magic, and those three days were spent looking for a solution. I am told that I was entirely unresponsive and would not eat or drink or sleep, and that I was actively dying when the solution was finally implemented.”

And here was the other piece of the question of the Arl-Commander’s sudden temper. He had found something he couldn’t fight, and almost lost himself _and_ Zevran to it. The carnage in Antiva City made sense, as did the reckless fierceness he’d thrown himself into his duel with.

“We finally returned to Amaranthine after a month in Kirkwall, and then I-”

Zevran’s smile had a twist to it that made it self-deprecating.

“If I am to be honest, and I should be, I ran away. I was scared and I made a stupid decision, and compounded it by both sneaking out in the middle of the night _and_ leaving a letter asking that I not be followed.”

That… did not make much sense. If the Arl-Commander was in the state that she’d been reading off him, he shouldn’t have left Zevran alone.

“I find it surprising that he listened,” she told Zevran.

“I won’t force him,” the Arl-Commander said fiercely. “Never. Not on _anything._ If he wants to leave he can leave and if he wants to stay he can stay and if he can’t stand to stay in one place he can always come back-”

“He is very insistent on respecting my freedom,” Zevran answered her, and this time his smile was more sad than anything. “So I ran to Antiva with no plan and no real aim except for where I would disembark from the ship. I was in Rialto for most of the fall and winter.”  

She and Erlina tried to ask their questions at the same time.

“And the dead Grandmasters?”

“What do you know of Rosso Noche?”

“My doing and unfortunately, much,” he replied. “I went to Rialto because it was the city where I was born and where I spent the first years of my life before the Crows bought me. I did not know that Rosso Noche had taken it over, and learned this in a very unfortunate manner-”

“Zevran,” Anora interrupted him. “A- I heard you properly? Before the Crows _bought_ you?”

“When I was seven? Eight? I do not remember the time of year properly - regardless. Yes, they did, for three gold coins from the man who had been prostituting me. My life changed very little, except for that the Crows collected coin for the rights to my body as a tool for killing as well as fucking.”

Suddenly, she couldn’t fault the Arl-Commander for punching Eamon Guerrin in the Landsmeet. She was resisting the urge to do something unwise to him as well, and _she_ knew that Eamon hadn’t been retelling hearsay but twisting the facts he must have learned from Antiva to suit his own ends. That was what you did, in politics, but there were extents to which it should not be taken, and this was _vile._ This was the sort of thing she’d expect from the Imperial Court of Orlais.

“Thank you for not beating him to death,” Anora told the Arl-Commander, who straightened in his chair. “A challenge to duel is allowed and expected. Murder is not.”

“I won’t promise for the future,” he said. “If someone hurts Satheraan-”

“You will let _me_ handle it,” Zevran cut him off, irritated and sharp. It seemed this was a standing argument.

“ _‘Satheraan’_?” was her next question. Erlina stepped lightly on her foot under the table, informing Anora that she wanted _her_ question answered, please.

“My mother is Dalish,” Zevran explained. “That is the name I was born with, and not the one that is the result of what Antivans found easiest to pronounce. This one-”

He smiled fondly at his fiancé.

“-he is quite fond of it, especially since it was confirmed. He had to guess, you see, because I had been told my mother was dead when she had really simply been taken very far away, and the Crows did not- _encourage_ remembering anything from before. I forgot it, and it is one of the things Theron has returned to me.”

Anora took some moments to focus on her breathing. It had always seemed clear, before, that Zevran did not talk about his past because he was intent on leaving it behind, because he had changed his ways. _This_ was something worth forgetting, and much worse than she ever would have guessed.

“If you need anything…” she said quietly.

He smiled at her, just a quirk at the corners of his mouth, remembering the day she’d come to see the Arl-Commander after the attack as she was.

“It is handled now, I believe,” he said gently. “But if I should require something, I will remember.”

She nodded, and returned Erlina’s step on her foot.

“Rosso Noche?” her friend asked again.

“Ah. Yes. An unfortunate group, full of idealists, incompetents, and a scare few people who actually know what they are doing. I was, hm, forcibly guested at the house of one of the prominent members in Rialto. They are against the Crows, you see, and did not trust me. The hypocrisy eventually became grating.”

“Hypocrisy?”

“They were owned, though they did not _quite_ realize it, by a Crow Talon by the name of Lauro Escipo. I was fortunate enough that he did not recognize me and of the mind to believe the accepted _‘wisdom’_ that Crow courtesans are stupid and incapable of _‘serious’_ assassin work. I was tolerated, and no one checked the validity of the name I was living under.”

He paused, and cocked his head.

“I take it you are interested chiefly in them for reasons of politics?”

Erlina inclined her head.

“Names, then. Hm. The people who may _accomplish_ something first. Captain Heliz Daganin, who sails out of Rialto on _The Eastern Charger_. She is the leader of the organization of ship captains who no longer wish to be beholden to the whims of the merchant houses and would prefer to handle their own affairs and contract on their terms. Also in Rialto is Liliva Melcarati, the Revered Mother.”

That was unexpected. The Chantry was not the place one looked for social change.

“I know of only a small portion, I suspect, of the group in Antiva City. Ezecil Romão is a writer and academic, as such. He studies Old Antiva, before the Chantry and the Imperium. He is a bit florid and fond of dramatics in his writing, but nothing too unreadable. If you wish to understand some of the foundation of Rosso Noche, you will find it in his books. They hold Old Antiva as an ideal - a time before the Orlesian Chantry, before the Crows, before the monopolies of the merchant houses, and a time when royalty could be trusted to _do_ something for their people. Otherwise, the important members are Itzar Josa, Marcel Loyola, and Illermo Pane. They are the Grand Cleric of Antiva, the Knight-Commander of the Circle in Antiva City, and the First Enchanter.”

“The _Grand Cleric?_ ” Anora asked, almost ready to disbelieve him.

Zevran shrugged.

“She was one of the founding members of Rosso Noche. She is _very_ committed, I am given to understand, as she happily worked with the network of Antivan apostates and seized the opportunity to plausibly claim Andraste and the Maker’s favor for a split between the Chantry in Antiva and the rest of the world.”  

That was far more information than Anora had been hoping for, and likely much more than Erlina had ever expected to learn.

“I don’t suppose you know anyone in the network of apostates?” her friend asked hopefully.

The smile Zevran gave her said very clearly that he _did_ know names, but what he said was: “I would hope that you would understand, if I wish to leave them their anonymity. For the time being. I would pass on a warning, though.”

“What?”

“Do not trust Yves Montilyet, should you ever be in a position to deal with him. He gave one son to the Crows and was attempting, in an incredibly fumbling way, to maneuver Rosso Noche onto a path that would benefit himself. Lauro Escipo was born Laurien Montilyet, you see.”

Anora had the feeling that _‘Montilyet’_ should be a name that was familiar, and judging by Erlina’s expression, she agreed.

“His elder daughter is Josephine Montilyet, the Antivan ambassador to Orlais,” Zevran helpfully provided, and _that_ could be a complication.

“You killed the brother of the ambassador to Orlais.”

“He would have killed me first,” Zevran said. “And he was hunting my children. If he had caught them-”

It was easy to forget that Zevran was an assassin, but not when his eyes turned hard like that. Anora decided she would not push. She’d learned enough about this particular subject.

“And Claudio Fulgendez?”

“Claudio Valisti. Yes. Unfortunately _he_ recognized me when the Wardens of Antiva decided I was untrustworthy. He was done in by his own hubris, in the end - he could not conceive of a world where a _‘Crow whore’_ such as myself could amount to anything without a team to do everything I was _surely_ incapable of.”

His smile was sharp.

“He had me in a cell and was torturing me, and he believed that I had gone to the Wardens in a convoluted attempt at finishing my contract on Theron and Alistair. He even suggested to me that he might keep me around long enough to be used to root out their _‘Black Shadow’_ that had been killing Grandmasters and Talons - or as bait, I suppose, being a courtesan. A difficult proposition, as it would be hard to assassinate myself. In the end, he made the mistake of setting up a _‘competition’_ with the other Talon Masters to determine who would succeed to the position of Grandmaster, as they have been fighting about it since I killed Eoman Arainai.”

“And this competition was…?”

“Whichever House killed me won,” the Arl-Commander said. “And then Valisti tried to bargain us walking away in exchange for cancelling the contracts on me and the- the _privilege_ of killing Zevran.”

And there, she had them. All the answers about Kirkwall and Antiva that she’d wanted. She knew the hows and the whys, and could make sense of the madness the Arl-Commander kept running into.

“Another question,” Erlina said, glancing at her. “The last one, I think. Why were the Crows fighting about who would be Grandmaster since Eoman Arainai was killed?”

“The position of Grandmaster comes with a symbol of office, passed down - well, it has _continued_ to be the signifier of office since the days when the Crows had yet to be more than a monastery that had a reputation for poisons. Only one Grandmaster has ever died of old age, but it is only this that makes it so that it cannot be said that _every_ change of office has come from the Grandmaster being assassinated and the successor proving themselves as the new Grandmaster through their possession of this signifier. It was not found, you see, when Eoman Arainai was killed, and no one ever came forward with it. He never had a _legitimate_ successor.”

Anora looked at him. He looked at her. She didn’t ask the question, but Zevran leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

If Erlina ever had cause to repeat her reasons for _‘why Zevran Revasina scares the shit out of me’_ , being the last person able to claim the post of Grandmaster of the Crows would be added to it.

* * *

Tiar had left the Amaranthine Estate a little after _Maestra_ Revasina and the Arl-Commander had. Both of them needed to have the perfect cover to protect them against her attack on the Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe, and today was quite warm. Fereldans liked opening their windows when it was warm. There wouldn’t be a better time.

The only things she’d left the estate with had been an iron awl from the stables and a vial of Crow poison she’d taken from _Maestra_ Revasina’s kit. She stole a bow and two arrows from three different people, and then took up her hidden position on the roof of the building that formed the narrow alley at the base of the Redcliffe Estate’s back wall.

Open windows, like she’d hoped. Tiar watched. There was no one in the private rooms at the moment that she could see, so she waited.

After a while, the Arl came into the bedroom, escorting his wife. She sat down heavily on the bed, and a few maids trailed in after them, bringing a large cistern and some cloths. The Arl went into his study.

Tiar strung the bow. The Arl looked through some of the papers on his desk. Tiar re-checked the back garden for guards. The Arl sat down at his desk. Tiar swiped the head of the first arrow with the Crow poison, nocked, sighted, and released.

It went straight through the Arl’s throat. It wasn’t a long distance, from her position. She’d had plans for the different eventualities. If the arrow hit the Arl but missed anything fatal, the Crow poison on the arrow would rot the wound, giving him a slow, painful death; or a long and agonizing recovery. If she’d missed the Arl entirely she would have just left- getting caught was absolutely not allowed, and at the very least she would have made both of them scared for their lives from some mysterious and unknown threat. That would have been more than they’d done to Nehna, and she could have lived with missing.

But she hadn’t, and the Arl was slumped over his desk, dead; so Tiar left the bow and other arrow on a safe part of the roof, crept up over the back wall, and burst across the back garden and up the side of the building into the Arl’s office.

The metal awl from the stables was jammed into the keyhole of the door. If anyone had heard anything, or came with something while she was still here, they’d have to break the door down to get in.

Tiar unlocked the drawer that held the Arl’s papers and pulled them out of the case. The case went onto the desk first, to keep the man’s blood off the papers, and Tiar stacked them neatly on the leather with the latest draft of the letter to the Crows on top.

Back on the outer wall of the building, she locked the window to the Arl’s study, then slipped back onto the roof. She shifted position so that she could see the Arlessa’s room better. Her maids were still in there with her, and enough time had passed that Tiar didn’t know how much longer _Maestra_ Revasina and the Arl-Commander would be meeting with the Queen.

It wasn’t the shot she would have preferred, but it would have to do. Tiar wiped poison onto the second arrow, nocked, waited, and let the arrow loose when everyone inside was facing away from the window.

As soon as it left the bow, she rolled down the roof. She heard terrified screaming as she landed in the back alley and started walking, unstringing the bow.The string went into a pocket, but she’d leave the bow itself in a different alley, well away from here. No one would piece it together, and then she could go back home and hear about what had befallen the Arlessa.

* * *

It had not been as hard as he’d feared to be honest with Anora. He had been worried that perhaps he would have another sudden panic here, but no - granted he had not discussed _particulars,_ but he had sat in this royal room with quality food and good wine and calmly talked about his past and never felt a bit of heightened nerves over it.

A nice development, this, though Zevran rather doubted this was truly the end of it. It seemed instead that-

Well, it seemed that he _trusted_ Anora. He was comfortable with her, and he - did he?

Yes, he did. He felt safe, and trusted her not to spread his personal secrets around. He _believed,_ even, that if she heard any of the rumors or talk about him personally, she would shut it down and obliquely threaten the perpetrators if they continued their actions without ever alluding to what she’d heard in this room.

It seemed that they understood each other. This was not a position he’d ever thought to find himself in, but here he was. He trusted the Queen of Ferelden, and if Theron and Alistair and Morrigan were ever unavailable, or unable to provide the help he needed, he found that he would have no compunctions coming to ask Anora. And he trusted that she would hear him out, at least, and provide suggestions if she could not do anything _concrete_ about the matter.

Ferelden was truly home. He was actually looking forward to the day when he’d have to swear loyalty to her.

“I hope that, in the future, we can continue to be this honest and open with each other,” Anora said. Mostly, it was to Theron. “Such communication is the foundation of diplomacy, after all, and I do not believe that either of us would wish to see the situation between Ferelden and Dalish deteriorate.”

“No,” Theron answered her. It was stiff, and Zevran didn’t even have to look at him to know that he was still suspicious about this. He wanted to be able to take his fiancé aside and tell him that he trusted Anora on this, but it might not actually help. Theron was speaking for his people, here, and was thinking like it. Elves had been mistreated by humans too often for Theron to simply give over to his good opinion. “We don’t.”

“Then we are in agreement on the basic relationship,” Anora said. “Good.”

“A question,” Zevran cut in, conscious of the fact that no one had finished their food, so conversation could continue, and that this was a completely new arrangement. “We are all conscious of the fact that nothing concrete can be decided at this time?”

“Of course not,” Anora agreed. “This is the opening of prenegotiations.”

“I understand what that _literally_ means,” Theron muttered to him in El’vhen.

“It means that you are making suggestions for things that later will be under discussion for contemplation in negotiations.”

He watched as Theron’s expression showed him trying to work through that.

“You are coming up with ideas about things that could become problems later, or that are problems now that need addressing between the two of you,” Zevran rephrased. “Theron - you can do this. It is like what I have said to you about politicking before. You have the skills. Ferelden is a person. The Dalish are a person. They are both in your clan and you have noticed that they may be headed into trouble between them, so you have pulled them aside to point out the issues you see forming.”

“But I can’t speak for _all_ the People.”

“And she knows that. She is trying to get an idea of what she should prepare for.”

Theron gave the air an intent look and nodded firmly.

“When you announced you would give us land,” he said to Anora, and Zevran settled back to watch. “You said _“The hinterlands north of the Kocari Wilds, including the fortress of Ostagar”_. But where does it _stop?_ There’s a lot of the Hinterlands. Technically it even goes right up to the village of Redcliffe, but I know we can’t go that far. We need to decide a real border, so that we can settle it. There isn’t enough room at Hallarenis’haminathe proper to fit everyone. All the clans have some sort of representation there now, but it means we’ve had to split them. Some to our city, some to stay wandering. It’s not safe and it’s not right.”

“That is certainly a concern,” Anora agreed. “I would ask that there be a set arrangement for what happens if and when Dalish kill Fereldans.”

“Fereldans killing Dalish, too,” Theron insisted. “And protection against Templars. If they come after our mages, they _will_ be attacked, and no Dalish will stand to be placed in the wrong for killing any who do.”

“That would be a matter to take up with the Grand Cleric, or your friend the Left Hand, or the Divine Herself,” Anora said. “ _I_ am not in charge of the Templars.”

“But you could talk to the Grand Cleric,” Theron pressed.

“Perhaps. She is not actually under any legal obligation to answer to me. Perhaps you can convince someone to grant you an exception for your own mages, but what about when apostates or Circle escapees try to hide with you?”

“We’re _not_ turning mages over to the Chantry. _If_ any of them turn into abominations or begin using their magic to deliberately hurt people, we will take care of it. We _have_ been taking care of it. We don’t need or _want_ Andrasteans brought into it.”

“I believe this all may require convincing the Chantry that the Dalish are an exception to the spread of the Chant,” Anora pointed out. “I doubt that it will go well for you.”

“We’re _not_ going to convert, either,” Theron said. “And we’re not going to stand for Chantry Sisters or whoever coming in and attacking our temples or disrupting our rituals or trying to convert us.”

He pulled a face, and Zevran wondered what exactly he was thinking of. Belligerent Chantry Sisters trying anyway? Attempting to negotiate with the Chantry for any of this?

“ _Probably_ we could agree to allow Chantry Sisters and the like inside our borders,” he said. “So long as they’re respectful and understand what isn’t allowed, if they want to learn about us or talk with us about our history or culture, like Brother Genitivi would. We could escort them outside our borders and leave them if they do otherwise, without any killing.”

“To keep to the point of what _Ferelden_ can do,” Anora spoke up. “You could win favor for the Dalish if you agree to be a buffer state between us and the Chasind.”

Theron turned to him.

“A _‘buffer state’_ is a country that lies between two others that have issues with each other,” Zevran explained, using El’vhen again. It was convenient, having a language between them that no one else in the room spoke. It kept what exactly they were discussing a secret. Secrets were good to have, in negotiations. You could always pull them out later to influence the discussions in your favor. “Having someone else between them means that they cannot immediately attack each other, and some distance can make all the difference in sweetening relations.”

“Your mother knows about the Chasind, right?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what we could agree to for that,” Theron told Anora. “But I know who could provide the information we’d need to have an idea about whether that’s feasible or not.”

“You are doing very well, _vhenan,_ ” Zevran told him. “I am proud. See? You _are_ capable of politics. Do not forget that.”

“We should have an arrangement for the movement of Dalish through Ferelden,” Theron said. “I’ve been smoothing the travel of clans that need it as much as I can, to get to our city, but it would be easier if there was an understood arrangement and I didn’t need to personally be involved. It needs to endure beyond me. From our lands, we _have_ to go through Ferelden to get to anywhere northern. It would also make trade easier.”

“Trade?” Anora asked. It sounded a dubious to him, so he cut in before someone could misstep on the topic.

“Of course trade,” Zevran said. “The Dalish trade with the Chasind and the Avvar and the people of the Sunless Lands. If nothing else, Dalish lands could be the point where disparate merchants meet to exchange goods.”

“There are _people_ in the Sunless Lands?”

“Of course,” Zevran said. “People will try to live anywhere, if there is reason enough.”

He turned to Theron. In the edge of his vision, he saw Erlina quickly write something down and slide the paper over to Anora.

“What do the Dalish have to trade that might interest Fereldans, or that they would be willing to buy to resell to others?” he asked. “Not things of novelty value, that may have worth simply because they are Dalish and different. Real, _sustainable_ exports.”

He watched Theron think about it.

“Enchanted items,” he said. “They have to get things from the Circles and the Chantry sells Tranquil-made goods at high prices. We might be able to offer more things for cheaper. It depends what people want. And the mages _have_ managed to turn the old darkspawn tunnels into growing climates. We have spices. Cinnamon. Ginger. Other things. I’m not actually sure what the clans from Antiva brought, and I _really_ don’t know what Alas’nidar’mis brought from Rivain. Could be anything. There was talk about growing rice in some of the swampy areas. There’s enough water and it’s not good for the rest of the land if we just keep draining the water away all the time.”

“Offer enchanted items and _‘ginger and other spices’_ for now. The spices at least should get her attention.”

“Depending on what you want,” Theron said to Anora. “We might be able to provide enchantments and magical items cheaper than the Chantry does. We probably also do different things. I’d have to ask around about how much there is, but we _are_ growing ginger and other spices. It’s a possibility.”

Zevran watched Anora’s face. The unexpected possibility of a cheaper spice trade had obviously gotten her attention, but her eyes flicked back down to the paper Erlina had passed her. She was considering something else.

“I am not surprised that you could have different magic to offer than the Chantry,” she said. “Tell me - does this magic extend to having a way for word to travel from Denerim to Ostagar, and then transport people back, all within three days?”

Theron had too many tells. He went stiff and stoic and Zevran silently despaired of being able to save this particular situation.

“It is my understanding that Lady Amell’s elder daughter and the rest of your family were in the south,” Anora continued, eyeing Theron. She’d noticed the defensiveness, of course, and knew she’d hit on something.

“Do not say anything yet,” Zevran warned him. “You must _think_ before you proceed.”

“I can’t tell her!” Theron said hotly. “It’s- it’s _Dalish!_ ”

“Is it a secret, then?”

“It’s _ours,_ ” Theron said. “If- if other people knew about them they’d go looking for others, and they’d _take_ them! They’re _ours!_ If no one else knows about them than they’re safe!”

“They are not particularly suited for trading across, no?” Zevran said. “You may deny their usefulness to the business of transporting goods, but you will not be able to deny that you can move _people_ that quickly. She has already caught that Morrigan and the others arrived far faster than they ever should have been able to. You reacted to it. She _knows_ she is not mistaken, and she knows that you are lying if you try to deny that there is any such thing.”

“It’s _ours!_ ”

“Theron, you need to _think_ about it for a moment. They are not useful for trade. In the same way, they are not practical for, say, moving soldiers. But message runners could reach anywhere there is another eluvian. Morrigan has traveled the entire continent stepping in and out of them. You also do not yet know where all of them _are._ Suppose that there are some hidden away near Val Royeaux? Or any other large city? Spies could slip in and out. It is a security risk.”

“They’re for _our_ use! Not for humans!”

“So insist that it is a secret,” Zevran said. “She has said that she wishes to continue an honest relationship and build trust. Emphasize that this is a secret _of the Dalish,_ and not simply something that you, personally - the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine, a man who is _subordinate_ to the woman sitting across from you - are keeping to yourself. State secrets are valuable currency and a major gesture of trust. Treating it as anything else will make her suspicious that this is something you are hoarding for yourself, and wonder what you intend to use them for.”

“It’s-”

“I know and you know that the reason you had one kept for the Vigil and another sent to the city is so that you could visit more easily. But consider if one is hidden in a basement of someone’s manor? Or that one has been mistaken for a simple, non-magical mirror, and you have a mage reactivate it? Such an item, such a _mirror_ of such size, would be quite expensive. It is, say, the sort of thing that a Teyrna or an Arlessa or a _Queen_ might own. The sort of thing they would place in their private rooms. An unwitting point of entry that you could, say, send an assassin through.”

“I _wouldn’t!_ ”

“I think you would, if it was needed,” Zevran disagreed. “Not that I am saying anything bad about your character or your morals, my dear, but if it was to protect me or your people? You cannot tell me that you would not. And it is a known fact that you have me, and that I am, in fact, an assassin.”

“I am not going to assassinate her and she should know better!”

“You killed her father,” he reminded Theron. “Say it is a secret of the Dalish. Offer to reveal it to her on the condition that it is a secret for _her_ and those others approved only. I would say - Erlina, and possibly whoever Anora takes for a husband. But no more than that. You could offer such a connection as an escape route, if she should ever be in need of it, or as a warning system from the other side of the country if such a thing could be needed. She could have messages for, oh, all the Arls and Teyrns. It would be _significantly_ faster to send the messages for Redcliffe, Gwaren, and Ashengard Keep to _you,_ have you pass them on through the eluvian to the Dalish, and have them delivered from Hallarenis’haminathe to their final destinations. Anora will appreciate the utility of such a connection, and she will also understand the wisdom of keeping it a closely-guarded secret. It is no good if other people know how you can have information so fast. As it stands, the only active route is between the Vigil and Hallarenis’haminathe, which is not actually very strategically useful. I do not think there is much worry.”

“But what if she won’t leave it alone? What if she tries to find others and take them!”

“Theron,” Zevran said. “ _Amora._ I understand why you may not believe me on this, but I trust her. I believe that you can, as well. She has her honor just as much as you have yours.”

“I don’t trust her with this,” Theron told him. There was a knock on the door; Anora and Erlina exchanged a quick look before Erlina got up to see what it was. “I trust _you_ with this.”

“So you trust me when I say-”

“I trust that you know that _she_ knows, and that if you say that I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist then I can’t,” Theron said, frustrated. “If she _has_ to know - you know how to say it better than I do, apparently.”

“You want me to do it.”

“You _understand._ About the People. About secrets.”

That he did. He got up from his seat and circled the table to stand next to Anora, close enough that he could pitch his voice low and not be heard.

“Three days is exceptional even for this, Your Royal Highness,” Zevran told her quietly. “But yes. There is a way to send a message and get a reply, or have a small group travel to Hallarenis’haminathe and back within the week.”

“That’s Ostagar, yes?”

“You will not want to refer to it as such if you mean to make a good impression,” Zevran told her, and quickly wrote the name down with some notations on pronunciation. “The method, and indeed the very fact that one _can_ do this, is _very much_ a secret the Dalish wish to keep. It is not-”

The door opened again, and he heard Erlina say, rather tartly: “Would you care to revise your words, Bann Teagan?”

Zevran looked up, and there was the man in question, clutching some pieces of parchment, his enraged expression warring with surprise and confusion.

“I _assume_ that you have a good reason for this interruption, Bann Teagan?” Anora asked.

“Your Royal Highness,” he said. His tone was stiffer than Zevran had ever heard it. _Obviously,_ something was wrong, since he’d come up to the palace to see the Queen, but to cause such a reaction, it must be dire. “My brother and his wife, they- they have been _assassinated._ ”

 _“Assassinated?”_ Anora repeated, rising from her seat. Zevran stepped back to allow her passage. “How long ago?”

Teagan was eyeing him and Theron. Why - was he _really_ under suspicion simply because of his trained profession?

“Less than a half hour,” he answered, and Anora frowned, following his gaze, then turning to him. He couldn’t see, but presumably Teagan was getting one of her looks.

He went back to Theron.

“We may wish to leave,” he suggested quietly. “And resume this another time.”

“I assure you, Bann Teagan,” Anora said. It had a hint of cold on the edges. “That they have both been here in my company for longer than that.”

And now Theron caught on.

“I would _not-_ ”

“He could be forgiven for thinking it, Arl-Commander,” Anora cut him off.

“There’s no _reason-_ ”

Theron shrugged him off when he tried to grab him, to keep him from striding over to Teagan and Anora. The best Zevran could do was follow close behind him, and hope that he could intervene if he needed to.

Anora just handed him what Teagan had been holding. Zevran wasn’t close enough to be able to look around Theron and see what it was, but he had a very good view of the way his shoulders set, hackles up, taking on the air of a bigger man.

“Theron-” he started to say warningly, putting a hand on his shoulder to have a starting point of restraint if it was needed, but Theron spun around and hugged him fiercely, unexpected.

“I’m _glad_ he’s dead,” he hissed quietly, in El’vhen. “If he _wasn’t_ I’d-”

“Whatever it is, do not take it out on Teagan,” Zevran ordered, shifting the conversation back into Trade. Being under suspicion was no time to be talking in a language no one else in the room could understand. “I doubt he had anything to do with- whatever this is.”

Theron pulled back and showed him the sheets of parchment Teagan had brought.

_From Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe in Ferelden, to the House of Crows in Antiva City._

_I sent a letter requesting the purchase of a contract some time ago-_

Arl Eamon had tried to- to-

The only thought he found he could hold onto, in this moment of vertigo, was that it was good the Crows were so disorganized that they couldn’t properly respond to requests for contracts. He doubted that anyone they could have sent would have _succeeded,_ but the thought that someone, a _Fereldan_ someone, had thought to-

And it was _Eamon Guerrin,_ who’d claimed that he’d simply been hearing rumors. But he’d been in contact with the Crows-

“Ah,” he managed to say. It was faint. “Yes. I see. This is. Unexpected.”

It wasn’t even about him, and he tried to use that thought as his anchor. Eamon had been after _Theron._ This about revenge on Theron.

This fact didn’t make it much better. Any relief he could have grasped from the fact that Eamon refused to attack Theron directly was lost in the fact that _he_ hadn’t even really mattered, he was just a means to an end, his death a tool to hurt others-

There was a mouth on his and strong hands clutching at his hair, a familiar solid body pressing against him. He tried to lose himself in Theron’s kiss and not to his own thoughts, and succeeded well enough that he didn’t feel the need to bolt when Theron pulled away.

 _“You are safe,”_ Theron promised him. There was blue seeping into his eyes. “ _No one_ will hurt you, I _won’t let-_ ”

“Leave,” Zevran told him, which stopped his fiancé short. “ _Amora, ma’len_ \- you are too angry for this. Go back to the estate, before you do something regrettable.”

“I won’t-”

“Assassinated?” Zevran asked Bann Teagan, ignoring Theron. “Truly?”

The man shifted uncomfortably. He seemed to be regretting, at least a little, jumping to a reasonable - if emotional - conclusion.

“Shot through their windows,” he said. “Eamon in his office. Isolde in her bedroom, with some of her maids in the same room. Where my brother was shot, he must have died very quickly, but Isolde - it took longer. I got there, just as-”

It seemed he couldn’t quite convince any more words to come.

“If you would like,” Zevran offered. “I could come and look at what exactly happened. I may be able to provide some insight, and perhaps it could be of use in discovering the who and the why.”

“I- if you would-”

“Go back to the estate,” he told Theron again. “I will return later.”

Theron looked like he wanted to argue. He stood there for a few moments, jaw clenched and protective anger still in his eyes, but he controlled it enough to reach up and take Zevran’s shoulders.

“Fine,” he said. “But be safe. Come back. _Soon._ ”

“As fast as is reasonable,” Zevran promised, and gave him a quick kiss - an assurance that he would, in fact, be all right.

Erlina escorted Theron out, and Anora came with him and Bann Teagan - though perhaps he was rightly Arl Teagan, now. Zevran wasn’t actually sure if the title passed immediately, or if there was a ceremony of some sort.

News had apparently not yet left the walls of the Redcliffe Estate, but for Teagan’s trip to the palace. The West Market was functioning as usual, a sharp contrast to the interior of the estate. It had clearly been disturbed, the noises subdued as guards worried over being bypassed or sat somewhere in shock. The servants were staying far out of sight, and doubtless a few of the elves had already fled the estate to hide in the alienage, scared of misplaced retribution for the deaths of the Arl and Arlessa.

The scenes of their deaths were hardly the most grisly or bloody ones he had ever been witness to. The guards here seemed reluctant to be in the company of the bodies, and even Teagan hung back.

Zevran inspected the bedroom first. She had been shot in approximately the center of her body, through the diaphragm and stomach. It was not a usual placement, for an assassination. She might have died from lack of breath, or from the bleeding out. Regardless, she had fallen off the bed.

He looked back and forth between the body and the bed, trying to determine where it was most likely that she had been lying. It was hard to tell.

The Arl’s office was next. His body was still slumped forward over his desk. The window was closed, and the door had been broken open.

“Where did you find those?” he asked Teagan, gesturing at the parchments.

“There,” he said. “On top of the case.”

Zevran pulled out one of his knives and used it to lift the case. There was a layer of blood beneath it. It had dripped into the open desk drawer as well.

He considered the arrow.

“I will need a cup of vinegar.”

Teagan sent someone to fetch one, and Zevran walked between the bedroom and the office, comparing the arrows and windows and possible angles. He unlocked the window in the office and opened it to climb out onto the wall. He could lock it from the outside, and with that determined, he climbed sideways to reenter in the bedroom.

The cup of vinegar was delivered, and Zevran hunted down a small piece of plain cloth that looked as though it was meant for embroidering. He pulled the arrow from Eamon Guerrin and let the blood drip from it before he dabbed a corner on the cleanest part of the arrowhead.

When he held the bloody corner in the vinegar, the liquid seeped up the cloth colored.

Hm.

“Based on this,” he told Teagan and Anora, indicating both rooms. “I am inclined to say it was a Crow. Arl Eamon was killed first. The window must have been open at the time, as I suspect that the assassin was situated on the roof of that building.”

He pointed out the window to the one that stood just beyond the back wall of the estate.

“The assassin then climbed in through the window and jammed the lock. With the room secure, they opened that locked drawer and placed those sheets of parchment where they were discovered. Whoever it was, they had been here before, and knew that he had these documents and where he kept them. Displaying them was to make a point.”

He stepped into the other room.

“The assassin then exited back through the window, locking and closing it behind them. They returned to the roof and chose a new position, from which they shot Arlessa Isolde. I would say that it was a quicker shot, not aimed as precisely as the one that killed the Arl, simply given _where_ the arrow entered her body - but I am an expert in blades and not bows. The assassin would not have lingered after this shot. There were witness and they knew it. They would have been out of sight by the maids thought to look out the window and see where the arrow had come from.”

He turned to Teagan, apologetic.

“They are long gone. I would say it would be worth stationing guards around the area to ask if anyone had seen anything, but the arrow that killed your brother was coated with Crow poison. Only Crows know how it is made, and a Crow would not have been seen leaving.”

Teagan nodded absently, almost automatically. Zevran knew he’d been heard, but Teagan was clearly, and understandably, not entirely in the moment.

“But he was trying to _contract_ the Crows,” he said.

“And care was taken to bring that information to light,” Anora said. “If the assassin was making a point, it seems as though the point may have been _emphatically_ demonstrating that they would not accept the contract.”

“But killing people who try to hire you is bad business,” Zevran said.

“And is incurring the wrath of your fiancé _worse_ for business?”

Ah. She had a point.

They made their sympathies known to Teagan and left. They walked together in silence back to the Palace District; but Anora stayed with him as he passed the palace itself.

“You are not-?”

“I would speak to you.”

She declined to continue until they were safely inside the estate and in the privacy of a room. He’d expected her to return to the topic of the eluvians, picking up where they had been interrupted, but it was not so.

“Do you have any of this Crow poison, Zevran?”

“Yes,” he said, guarding his suspicion. It had already been established that he had been in the same room as her when the Guerrins had been killed.

“With you? Here?”

“I keep a small supply with my kit,” he admitted. “I do not often poison my blades, as when I fight my opponents are dead soon after. Poison is a waste, in such a situation. But it never hurts to have a little on hand in case the need arises.”

“Could someone have stolen some from you?”

“Yes,” he frowned. “But where is the point? Any Crow come to kill here in the city would bring their own. Breaking into _this_ estate to steal from _me_ is incredibly stupid.”

“Zevran,” Anora said. “I know for a fact that the first letter Eamon Guerrin wrote to the Crows never left the country.”

But if it hadn’t, the Crows couldn’t have sent anyone. But it had been a Crow who had done the deed, or at the very least someone who could have stolen poison from him. It was not _impossible,_ but highly unlikely, that anyone had snuck into the estate, broken into his and Theron’s bedroom, and taken the vial of Crow poison from his kit without alerting anyone or disturbing the room. If the room _had_ been disturbed, there would have been someone waiting by the door for him to return to relay the news.

Anora was giving an even, solemn look. Had she expected him to be on the watch for more Crows? With Salvail dead, there was no one but himself-

Oh.

His heart dropped and sat uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Do you,” he said to Anora, hesitantly, afraid of the answer. “Do you want to take her?”

“This has been the only incident,” Anora said. “With the other Crow, it was an attempt to protect you. It seems this is the same. Ensure it does not happen again. If it does… I doubt there will be a Teagan I can convince to accept a mystery to save his brother’s reputation.”

“I understand, Your Royal Highness,” Zevran said, and bowed low. “Your mercy is a grace I will not forget. If you ever have need of me- call upon this debt.”

* * *

Tiar was reading a book. It was a book of stories, and she’d decided she liked it. She was going to read them all.

The door of the suite opened and she glanced up. Once, she would have already been on her feet, but here - she didn’t have to, so she didn’t.

But seeing _Maestra_ Revasina there made her think maybe she should have. His expression was - it wasn’t that it was unreadable, it was that there was _too much_ going on there.

She put the book down and tried to hide that she was pressing herself up against the wall. They spent a moment just looking at each other, and then _Maestra_ Revasina’s expression shifted and settled into a broken sort of subdued fear that she’d been trained to recognize, to _cause,_ for those few contracts where causing pain was part of the job.

Did he…

He cared. He’d said he did. And if he thought that there was just someone out there - some Crow, because the tone the Arl had taken in the letter he hadn’t finished writing was insolent enough that in Antiva the contract would have been refused with a near-fatal scare for the person who’d dared speak like that - he’d been trying to protect them from the Crows since he’d saved them in Rialto.

Tiar hadn’t thought that maybe she’d scare _Maestra_ Revasina. But here he was, scared, and it made - it wasn’t really fear, but it was something close, something that made her feel bad. Guilt? Shame? She didn’t want to hurt _him._

“They were trying to get you killed,” she said, because that was easier somehow than _‘I did it, it was me’_.

The fear on his face stopped being distant, and he was on the bed next to her and pulling her into his arms before she could decide if it was better to stay or try to run. It wasn’t what she’d expected to happen, and she tensed up at the unexpected contact.

She was focused enough on trying to relax that it took her a minute to realize that she wasn’t the one shaking. _Maestra_ Revasina was, with one hand clutching in her hair and the other arm wrapped around her waist to hold her close, face tucked up against her neck and shoulder. There was wetness seeping through her hair, and now that she listened, his breath wasn’t steady.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “I know. The first letter he tried to send to the Crows, _isagadi,_ it never reached Antiva, but there was Crow poison on the arrow and I am the only one in the city who has any and I was with the Queen when they were killed. It had to be someone with the right training who could take some from me and they had to know where I was because the point was made to reveal his attempts. Diego does not have the right training.”

Tiar didn’t know what to do. What did he want, if he already knew that she’d been the one to kill them? If he was going to tell her she’d done a good job - which she _hadn’t,_ because he’d figured out it was her - he would have done it already. The only thing left was punishment for mistakes, but _Maestra_ Revasina had already said so many times he wouldn’t hurt them. There wouldn’t be a beating, or a torture. With Nehna, all he’d done was make them clean up the mess and give her things back-

You couldn’t put someone dead back living. Did he want her to confess? But if he did, wouldn’t he have brought guards? But she would have been able to overpower guards, probably, and wouldn’t he know that? What else could there possibly be?

He shifted to pull back and she _knew,_ she _knew_ what is was going to be because hadn’t it been what the Arl had wanted _Maestra_ Revasina for, to hurt someone who had killed someone else because you couldn’t put the dead back and if he wasn’t going to torture or beat her wouldn’t he not kill her but he _could-_

 _“Please!”_ she begged, and it came out a sob as desperate as the way she grabbed the front of his shirt to keep him close. “I’m _sorry_ please don’t _please-!_ ”

“Tiar-”

“I’ll promise I won’t do it again I’ll promise I won’t train any more I’ll stay here I’ll do whatever you want _Maestra,_ Master-”

“Do not call me that.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry,” she whimpered and she wanted to slip off the bed and cower and tremble at his feet because sometimes if you showed how scared you were it could make the punishment less. “I’m sorry _please_ don’t make me go away _please_ I want to stay here _I want to stay here_ I’ll give you whatever you want-”

He pried her hands off his shirt and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from making more noise because he was going to push her away and then she’d be _sent_ away; but he just turned her so she was huddled into his chest, and he could hold both her hands with the one that wasn’t holding her against him.

“All I want is for you to be safe, Tiar,” _Maestra_ Revasina said. It sounded like he was still crying. “And you very nearly were not, because it was the _Queen_ who knew about the first letter, and you killed some of her nobles, and this is _not Antiva_ and she would have had every right to come here with her choice of guards or fighters and take you from me, _isagadi,_ and have you killed for what you did today. But she likes me and she understands that you only meant to protect me but you _cannot_ do this again, Tiar, you _can not._ You should have come to me when you learned of what he was trying to plot, and it could have been dealt with otherwise.”

“They wanted you _dead,_ ” Tiar said, turning to bury her face in his chest. “ _Talking_ wouldn’t work.”

“There is talking to negotiate something and there is talking to discredit someone, _isagadi,_ and it would not have been a hard thing with evidence and the Queen’s favor for me to speak against him and have it believed. This is not Antiva, Tiar. Fereldans do not take kindly to the idea that one might settle their problems with another through sending assassins.”

He let go of her hands to curl around her head, supporting her as he rested a cheek atop her hair.

“I almost _lost_ you today, _isagadi,_ ” he whispered. “I could not tell you how much that scares me. If the Queen _had_ come for you - I would have had to let her take you, but then I would have stolen you back, helped you get away even though even if I did it and no one saw me and no one could prove anything it would still be _known_ that it was me, and I _still_ would have done it anyway, even knowing that it would destroy what is left of my name and it would hurt Theron’s. But I would not be able to leave you, _isagadi._ I love you too much to do that and I would _not_ be able to stand aside. Not for trying to protect me as best you knew how. Not for- not for many things, Tiar.”

 _Maestra_ Revasina held her tighter.

“I could not stand to lose you. it would always hurt. _I love you_ and there will never be a time when I do not.”

She listened to him try to control his breathing and stop his tears, and it occurred to her that _this_ was the reason he had come to see her. He had not come to punish her, or even to be angry, or worse _disappointed._ He had come because he was scared for her, and he was trying to calm that fear. _Maestra_ Revasina had come to her for comfort, because he needed the reassurance that she was safe, and here.

Against his shirt, Tiar whispered: “I care about you too,” and didn’t worry about if he’d heard it or not.


	13. Chapter 13

He didn’t really want to go to Eamon and Isolde Guerrin’s funeral, given what they’d been plotting, but apparently it was an obligation for nobility to attend the funerals of other nobility, so long as it was reasonable. The Guerrins had been killed during a season of court; therefore the entire nobility would be attending.

“Explain this to me again,” Theron said. Elsewhere in the estate, all three of the Amells were getting ready. He’d sent Damien out to help them instead of keeping him around where he wasn’t needed. He and Alistair had been doing up their own armor for years, and it wasn’t like it was hard to put an off-shoulder cape on.

“You are an Arl, and still a Champion of Redcliffe,” Tanis said patiently. “As well as the Warden-Commander. So you must attend. Lord-Captain Mac Maric is the son of the Guerrin brothers’ sister’s husband, so he is family enough to be considered vital. The Ladies Amell are now Fereldan nobility, as the Bann of Lothering, with one daughter considered a hero of the common people of Ferelden in exile and the other engaged to Teyrn Fergus.”

“I’ve got that. But why is Bethany going as Teyrna Apparent of Highever while Satheraan and Merill can’t come at all?”

“Satheraan is not required to come because while he is your fiancé, he does not yet hold any noble titles of his own. Your sister is forbidden from coming because of simple prejudice.”

“I mean,” Theron said. “I don’t think they’d _want_ to come. _I_ don’t want to go. But-”

“You don’t like what it means that they can’t,” Tanis finished for him, and placed a hand on his arm. “I know. Even so, this is the most permissive Andrastean funeral Thedas will have seen in a while, with you there.”

He huffed, and she smiled ruefully at him.

“It will only be for part of the morning. Think of it as an opportunity to observe other customs. It is how I stood Chantry services for the first years of Lydes.”

Theron smiled back at her, and kissed her cheek.

“Wise words from my _Amma,_ ” he said, and got a little spike of warmth in his chest when she chuckled at it.

“Have you called Nehna _Mamae_ yet?”

“I have a _Mamae_ and she’s here right now. I don’t think Nehna and I like each other to go that far, anyway.”

“You could always improve your relationship.”

“We’ll see,” Theron said. It wasn’t like there was a pressing reason. They tolerated each other, and they both knew that they’d be hearing from the other if they did something to hurt Satheraan. It was good enough. “Will you be leaving with her, when she eventually does go?”

“I don’t know,” Tanis admitted. “Now that I have her, I want to _be_ with her, but Damien and I have never been apart before. I shouldn’t drag him out to Mont-de-glace. He’s too young to retire. He really does love his job, and - _well._ He is a man with wealth and status enough to have a real place in the world.”

“Satheraan and I would make sure he was alright, and cared for,” Theron promised. “He’ll always have somewhere and someone to turn to.”

“I know you would,” Tanis told him, and patted his chest plate. “Now go downstairs and meet the others. It would not do to be late.”

Wearing armor for dress meant that there were pieces missing, and Theron tried not to dwell on it too much as he went down to the front hall. It wasn’t like there would be much reason for a fight, and he could work without a helmet or a shield, but given the way Denerim had been going - he was happy he had his sword.

And he wasn’t going to admit to anyone else that having one on him during a Chantry service, particularly one with Falon’din’s owl on the pommel, would make him feel better. But he could put his hand on the hilt any time he liked, and feel the molded lines of the design, and remind himself of who his god _really_ was.

He wasn’t quite the last one to make it down to the front doors, but the only other person who hadn’t arrived yet was Marian. Satheraan and Alistair were talking quietly off to the side, and Theron slipped up behind his fiancé, where he could rest his chin on Satheraan’s shoulder and wrap his arms around his waist.

“I wouldn’t want this to, y’know,” Alistair was saying, one nervous hand on the back of his neck. “Come between us, or anything.”

“You would have to do _far_ more than this to damage our relationship,” Satheraan told him. “You cared for him. You wished to be fully accepted as family. I would say he gave you less than you deserved, but I will not begrudge you any mourning you wish to partake in any more than I would if _this_ one-”

He turned his head just enough that Theron could see his eyes, and he happily leaned into the hand Satheraan placed lightly on his cheek.

“-Maker and Creators forbid, finally found something that he could not walk out of.”

For a moment, Alistair’s expression was pure agony. He was about to reassure his friend, but then Alistair answered with a: “Yeah, okay,” and spun around to walk off towards Bethany.

“Satheraan?’ he asked, after a moment of watching their conversation begin. “Is he mad? Did I scare him enough with everything with Salvail that he wants an apology?”

Satheraan patted his cheek.

“That is a topic for the two of you to talk out yourselves.”

After the service, then, Theron decided.

Marian arrived, seeming disgruntled that she had no acceptable reason to wear her own armor and that her greatsword was inappropriate for a Chantry service, even in Ferelden, and the door opened enough for a servant to slip through.

“Serrah- Your Arlship,” the man switched to quickly, and bowed. “Your Arlship, there are two women outside requesting your attention.”

“Who?”

“A Chantry sister, Your Arlship-”

“Oh, _Leliana,_ ” Theron realized. “I didn’t know she was coming by. It’s not a great time, but I’ll say hello at least.”

The servant bowed again and opened the door to admit the guests. It was indeed Leliana, in Chantry robes that were a few steps nicer than her usual everyday wear, complete with a medallion that had the personal emblem of the Divine stamped on it. With her was a woman he’d never seen before, dark in the way of northerners, her skin offset by the warm-toned cream dress she wore. It had just the barest hint of sea green, and he’d learned enough about Amaranthine to know that the billowed, draped sleeves were dripping fine Fereldan lace below her elbows. The skirt of the dress was slit up the front and cut wide, showing tall boots and the barest hint of poofed pants under the long, wrapped jacket in a vibrant dark red. It wasn’t quite a shade of amaranth, but it was close.

Satheraan pulled away from him and stepped towards the unfamiliar woman, reaching out to bow over her hand and kiss the back of it.

“ _Domsignora,_ what a pleasure,” Theron heard him murmur to her in Antivan. “A rare gift indeed, to unexpectedly be graced with the presence of an illustrious daughter of our shared home. I hope what brings you from Orlais is no catastrophe, to send you away from the Imperial court at the height of spring in Val Royeaux.”

“A royal summons and a matter of family affairs is no trial,” she answered in the same language, and made a small curtsey, even while Satheraan still held her hand. “Especially not when it brings me so conveniently to your door, Master Revasina. My only regret is the timing of my arrival.”

“Sadly inauspicious indeed, Lady Montilyet,” Satheraan agreed, and gently led her out of her curtsey with the hand he held. “Allow me to offer my assurances that while you are in my company, no such hint of harm will cross your thoughts.”

“I should have thought that he would recognize her,” Leliana whispered to him, and Theron leaned in, still watching the other two.

“How did he?” he whispered back.

“The livery collar,” Leliana said, drawing his attention to the wide, heavy stretch of gold draped around her neck, medallions of cast gold and sapphires. “Gold and blue with the Orlesian lions. Very distinctive, and there is only one like it and one person allowed to wear it at a time.”

“Leliana?”

“Hm?”

“ _Who_ is she?”

“Josie,” Leliana spoke up, beckoning to the woman when she turned her head in response to the summons. Satheraan turned with her when she did, letting her hand gracefully descend to rest only once she had stepped away. “This is _Hahren_ Theron Mahariel Sabrae, Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine. Theron, this is my dear friend Lady Josephine Montilyet, the Antivan ambassador to the Imperial court of Orlais.”

Josephine curtseyed again, deeper this time, and entirely to him.

“It is an honor, Your Arlship, and I would express my eternal thanks for ending the Fifth Blight in so short a time and so close to its source, before it could spread to the rest of the world. We in Antiva remember the Fourth Blight still, and Warden Garahel has not been forgotten. You will not be, either.”

Theron glanced over at Leliana. This was nice and all, but _why_ was she here? This was an ambassador so this was politics, was the bit about Antiva not forgetting him meant to be a jab about the Crows in Antiva City? Was she here to disapprove at him too, like Anora, but much politer?

“Josie could not bear the thought of leaving the situation between you unaddressed,” she told him. “So she asked me to introduce you, since our duties have brought us all to the same city at the same time.”

 _What_ situation between them? He’d never met this woman before.

He glanced over at Satheraan, hoping for some sort of answer. He mouthed _‘Rialto’_ from behind Josephine’s back, and _oh._

 _Those_ Montilyets.

“I’d rather hear it from your brother,” Theron told Josephine. “But if you came all the way here, I’ll hear you out. It’s just I’m supposed to be going to a funeral very soon, so maybe-?”

“I brought her with me so I could introduce you before the service, Theron,” Leliana explained. “I am expected to attend as well, so it was also an excuse to see more of you and Alistair.”

“If it is agreeable, Lady Montilyet,” Satheraan cut in smoothly. “I could stand for my fiancé while he attends to his other duties.”

“He was the one your brothers _really_ caused the trouble for,” Theron agreed. “It would be more right to apologize to him rather than me.”

“And I myself would appreciate the chance to converse in my own language, particularly with such an educated and connected woman as yourself,” Satheraan said cheerfully. “Shall I escort you to the Sun salon for the tendering of your apology? Afterwards we may even exchange news and our favorite stories of home. Denerim is sadly lacking in other Antivans, you see.”

He offered her his arm, and she laid a hand lightly near the bend of his elbow.

“I would appreciate that myself, Master Revasina.”

Satheraan led her towards the rest of the estate, stepping away from her only long enough to say something quietly to Damien, who disappeared. Servant things for hosting, no doubt.

Leliana took up a place between him and Alistair as they and the Amells finally left to go to the Chantry. It wasn’t a long walk, but they took it slowly, Leliana keeping up a conversation between the three of them. She’d deliberately set their pace, it seemed, because they arrived in the area in front of the Chantry just as the first of the other nobles began to appear from other streets.

Leandra, Bethany, and Marian peeled off at some point between coming into sight of the Chantry and reaching its doors. Leliana stayed with them until just inside before whisking herself off into gycthe side passages of the sanctuary to talk to whoever she needed to see and find her place for the impending ceremony.

“Your Arlship,” a subdued voice said from his left, and Theron looked over. It was Reynaud Yann Fay-Dufort, Isolde’s cousin.

“How are your injuries doing?” he asked the chevalier. “If they’re still bothering you, we have a healer-”

“I am- as well as can be expected, Your Arlship,” Reynaud replied. “I- I came to beg your forgiveness.”

Apparently this was the day for that.

“My lady cousin and her husband meant to do you and yours a great harm,” he continued. He was keeping his voice quiet, but it was still clear. That was because it was the loudest noise in the space, Theron realized. None of the rest of the nobility had entered yet. Or been allowed in? He hadn’t been paying attention, but they _had_ walked in with Leliana. “I can only say that I am grateful she did not succeed, and that not I, nor my mother, nor any other of my relatives knew her plans. It pains me to think that her grief was so strong as to distort her thinking this badly, and I thank the Maker and His Bride that she did not manage to inflict the same grief upon you.”

…Had he actually apologized? This was what he needed Satheraan for. Ser Reynaud did seem sincere in his attitude, but his words had the undertone of politics.

“Thank you,” Theron said, because that seemed the safest option. “Were you close to your cousin?”

“Not particularly,” Reynaud said. “I come from the younger end of the family. But I will be returning to Orlais with speed, for my mother and aunts will wish to know this news.”

“Safe journeys, then.”

He hadn’t had cause to be in this Chantry before. Really the only ones he’d spent any amount of time in, still, were the old Chantry in Lothering, the Chantry in Redcliffe, and Our Lady Redeemer in Amaranthine. He could see, a bit, where contributed money had gone into making Denerim’s chief Chantry more ornamented and opulent than the rest. He wondered how much of it was post-Occupation anger or spite at the Orlesians. Amaranthine had always been where the Grand Cleric of Ferelden had her base, but it was singular in that way. Every other country had their Grand Cleric stationed in their capital.

Swagged curtains, heavy and bright, hung in front of the windows. Other fabric draped the stone walls, and Theron thought that maybe the bright purples and pinks and reds of them were meant to hide the fact that here, in this Chantry, the only stained glass flanked the statue of Andraste. It was a sort of history of great moments in Ferelden Andrasteanism, and he’d sadly lived in Ferelden for long enough that he could identify Andraste, Havard, and Calenhad by their attributes. It was more reassuring to look at the drapery, and wonder how, considering they would have had to buy it from Amaranthine, Denerim justified the one-upsmanship this seemed to represent. He could only hope that it hadn’t been Rendon Howe who’d gotten the revenue for that purchase. But it probably had.

“Arl-Commander?”

This would be another apology. He could do without this being a theme today.

He turned to Teagan and waited.

“I- there is very little I can say, I think, but I wish- I _should_ say-”

“You’re better off talking with Alistair,” Theron told him. “He’s not had a happy time trying to reconcile the image he had of your brother with the way he’d been acting.”

Teagan’s expression was pained.

“I must-”

“So long as you aren’t planning on killing any of my people,” Theron said, and pointed out Alistair, who’d gone up to the front of the Chantry to sit by Andraste. “We’re fine. Go help Alistair.”

He needed some quiet before he sat through a Chantry service.

* * *

Maybe it wasn’t an appropriate time. Maybe he should be feeling guilty that he wasn’t focusing entirely on the fact that Arl Eamon and Isolde were dead; but he’d also been feeling guilty at being vaguely relieved that he wouldn’t ever have to sit through another conversation about what he _should_ do because of his status, and guilty about it being maybe being hurtful to Zevran and Theron that he was sad the people who had been trying to hurt them had been killed, and _also_ guilty about feeling guilty about all of that. So guilt could go take a long walk, and he could focus on a different problem.

He hung behind as everyone else filtered out of the Chantry, spending a moment to tell Theron he’d be back at the estate once he talked to Leliana, once he noticed his friend was lingering. Leliana had disappeared into a side room that he knew from experience would be the personal office of the Revered Mother, and he waited in the thoughtless attention of the Templar he’d almost been until she reemerged.

“Alistair,” she said, obviously surprised. “You are still here. Did you… need to talk?”

“Yeah, I do,” he told her. “But not about what you’re thinking, probably. Could we…?”

She walked with him to an unoccupied side room and closed the door.

“What is troubling you, that you think I would not be thinking of it?”

Alistair took a deep breath.

“I need to know how to stop feeling about people.”

She blinked at him, and as her eyebrows started to rise, he pressed on.

“It’s a thing Templars are supposed to learn, and they don’t _put_ it like that, it’s all about keeping distance from the mages if you end up assigned to a Circle, but that’s what it really is, and I was never any good at it, but I _need_ to be now because- because I love Theron and he’s getting _married_ and I don’t want to ruin that because he and Zev are both my friends but I _love him_ and I can’t do this and I shouldn’t do this, and it’s unholy of me and _wrong_ and you’re the Left Hand and all so you should know something about how to stop thinking things you shouldn’t be thinking anyway, right; and how to give it all up to Andraste and be whole and good in the Maker’s love and accept her guidance and-”

“Alistair,” she interrupted gently. “Love is a gift of the Maker. It is divine.”

“And so’s marriage. When you’re bringing love into it. And _they_ are, and Dalish theology besides, so I _really can’t_ be like this, Leliana. I need _help._ ”

Why was it that he’d not cried when he’d heard that Arl Eamon was dead, or even through the service held in his memory, but _now_ he was trying to force tears to stay in? Why was it that thinking of loving Theron, or of losing him, or of his response if he ever learned about his wrong thoughts was such a _sharp_ pain, but losing Arl Eamon was just a dull ache that felt like it would soon pass?

He was dishonoring his friends and violating their relationship _and_ dishonoring the memory of the man who’d agreed to take him in. He hadn’t felt this disgusted with himself since the days after Ostagar.

Alistair leaned over his knees and gripped his hair, trying to keep himself under control.

“I can tell myself,” he said bitterly. “I can tell myself I’ll never do anything about it, that we can just stay friends, but-”

Tightening his hold on his hair didn’t help, unfortunately. His tears were leaking out to splash, one by one, onto the wooden floors.

“But he’s so _touchy,_ Leliana; and what about the next time he gets drunk because we try to keep him from it but it _will_ happen again and he _kisses me_ because that’s what he’s always done when he’s drunk and he’ll kiss me and want to be close to me and I don’t think I can resist that sort of temptation, Leliana, an-”

His word turned into a sharp inhale, the pained heave that could so easily turn into sobs.

“-I’ve been trying to avoid him but _that hurts too_ and it’s not fair to _him_ either because I can’t tell him but I can’t act like nothing’s changed but if I don’t fix it then I’ll _ruin it-_ ”

“Your friendship with him?” Leliana asked. “Or his relationship with Zevran?”

“ _Both!_ Either! He’s the only person who’s ever kissed me, Leliana, and now I’ve been having _thoughts_ and I try not to daydream but it keeps happening and what if I start _actually dreaming_ about it? We run into mages trying to hurt us and demons _way_ too often for people who are supposed to fight darkspawn and eventually it _will_ get used against me and nobody should find out that way but nobody who doesn’t already know should find out at all so _I have to stop this._ ”

Leliana sat down next to him. He heard the creak of the bench, and felt the way her hand traveled, flat and warm, up and down his spine.

“The only thing I know of is time and distance,” she told him. “It is much easier to stop feelings when they are developing than to stop them when they have already bloomed. By the time Marjolane had us ambushed on the road outside of Haven, I did not love her any longer. But I spent many long days after her betrayal of me, many months in the Chantry, before I could leave her behind.”

“I’ve done distance,” Alistair said into his hands. The tears didn’t stop, just ran through his fingers, but at least he wasn’t sobbing. “I’ve done _time,_ Leliana, I went to the Anderfels and back and I spent a winter and spring without him and until we went to Kirkwall I’d been at Soldiers’ Peak but for half-year visits of a couple days to the Vigil to report in and _that’s all I ever saw him_.”

“And you loved him then,” Leliana said.

“He was all I had left. After Ostagar. Just the two of us, me only six months Joined and him only an _evening,_ no _fucking_ clue what we were doing- we just about killed ourselves lighting that blasted beacon on the tower and we come to in Flemeth’s hut and it didn’t even _matter,_ everyone else was _dead-_ and when I didn’t want to make decisions, when I was hurting, when Morrigan kept poking at me just because she could- he stepped up and made the decisions and listened to me grieve and listened to me run my mouth like an idiot and listened when I- when I _anything,_ and no one had _ever_ done that before. In the monastery, the one I got sent to-”

Something came loose then. Maybe it had been the finality of all this. Maybe it was because he had pushed his guilt away. Maybe it was time and distance, like Leliana said.

“-the one I ended up in when Eamon gave me to the Chantry rather than take care of me, as much as _anyone_ ever took care of me,” Alistair said bitterly. “We had rooms, because it was a Templar monastery specifically. For training recruits. Single rooms. Stone. Dark. Silent. I’d slept in a stable my whole life in the straw with the dogs or the horses where it was warm and there was always some sort of noise and light and it smelled a little. I couldn’t _stand_ those rooms and I’d scream and scream until someone came to check on me and I could believe that I wasn’t- that I hadn’t just _died_ and ended up in the Void. Eventually they just stopped coming when I screamed. And locked the door.”

“They did not _help?_ ”

“We were meant to become Templars. We had to be _strong,_ to overcome our fears and trust in the Maker wholly and completely, so that demons could have no hold over us. Eventually I stopped screaming. Because no one would listen. But when I dreamed about the Archdemon, or the horde, or Ostagar, or _anything-_ Theron would come. He _cares_ and he’s kind and considerate and- Maker, Leliana, he’s not _perfect_ but he’s, he’s the closest-”

His breath came in a gasp and if he didn’t get himself under control he _would_ start sobbing here, over this.

“-he makes stupid decisions and he’s stubborn and sometimes he doesn’t do his sodding _job_ and he gets in so much more trouble than he should and sometimes he’s just completely fucking oblivious but you _know_ what he’s like. He’s- he decides you’re one of his and then he’ll _die_ for you, he’d do all sorts of- we’ve crossed lines. Lines we didn’t during the Blight, and ones I never thought I would but _Maker_ Leliana I can’t bring myself to regret them because we decided to cross those lines _together_ and it feels _safe_ and _all right_ when I do it with him, because I _trust him_ so much-”

He choked on the thickness in his throat, for a moment. It made his next words come out quiet and breathless.

“So damn much. Leliana- he hunted down Marjolane for you. He’s taken on all sorts of Crows for Zevran. He _fought_ for me, when I said I didn’t want to be crowned, and he didn’t back down for anything. He _believed_ that I could do the job but he didn’t _expect_ me to. He’s never expected anything of me, not for me to be smart or an idiot or suave or well-spoken or anything but have decent morals and fight darkspawn. _That’s it._ And I’d follow him to the end of the world for it, Leliana. It could- the Chantry could come for Morrigan, she could be dragged off to be judged at the foot of the Divine herself and he’d go in there all armored in righteous fury and demand she be let go and fight them a path out of Val Royeaux; and Maker forgive me if he asked me to come along I _would._ I would and Zev would and so would Oghren and Nate and Anders and a whole bunch of us, Wardens or people he’s picked up. He could walk in here right now and say: _‘I’m going to Seheron and I’m going to fight the Qunari and the Imperium until I make so much trouble that they have to sign a peace treaty and live with each other’_ and I’d just ask when we were sailing. He could come and say: _‘I think I made a mistake giving Anora the throne and she needs to be deposed’_ and I’d follow him right into starting another civil war; and at the end of it if he looked at me and asked me to be King of Ferelden _I would_.”

“You are lucky this is a private room, Alistair.”

“But don’t you _see?_ ” he said, and, disturbingly, felt like laughing. “I’d commit treason, I’d go to war, I’d do all sorts of things I’d never do otherwise because it would be _him._ I’ve never loved anyone like this. I’m never going to love anyone else like this. He _changed my life,_ completely. I thought it was changed when I Joined the Wardens and it _was,_ but if things hadn’t happened the way they did I’d just be some annoying junior Warden the Commander favored. I’d never- I could walk into that Ostagar, then, that day, and younger me would never believe me. Not for a _second._ Warden-recruit-me wasn’t that different from Templar-recruit-me. I just liked the work better. But I wouldn’t have _changed._ ”

“I understand,” Leliana said. “The me who was betrayed by Marjolane was a very different me. Even if I had given up the life of a Bard, I would be not so different, I think. But Justinia- the Divine- she rescued me when she was no more a local Revered Mother and I only an Orlesian girl less skilled than I believed, and she brought me to the Maker.”

“You love her like I love him.”

“She is more than all of us,” Leliana gently disagreed. “She is the Divine, chosen of the Maker and Andraste. She is the Most Holy first and foremost, and any friend of mine a distant second. But yes- if she said that the existence of a Black Divine was no longer tolerable, I would kill him and strike at every weak point of the Imperium without mercy, and die to accomplish it if I must. Because _she_ asked me. But Theron is only a hero.”

“He’s no more mine than the Divine is yours,” Alistair said miserably, sitting up enough to lean into her shoulder for comfort. She held him with one arm. “He’s getting married. I want him _so much,_ and I can’t-”

His breath hitched.

“Cry,” she urged him quietly; and he did.

* * *

She would have liked to do the polite refusals first, but it wasn’t wise or practical. One did not inform someone that they were out of the running for a royal marriage only to come back later once your first choice of husband had turned you down.

So Rosaire was first. Anora was glad that, at least, she couldn’t do this in formal state attire. It would have everyone talking. Not that the walk from her apartments to the guest suites given the visiting royalty while sporting the Gwaren tartan and coordinating dress, black and green and cream wouldn’t do the same, but it would buy them a few minutes. It was more formal than she had been for the other times she had visited for lunches, but it would have gone only momentarily remarked on. She was still the Queen. 

But the servants would still have the palace buzzing within the hour, for what she had on her head. It wasn’t the Crown of Ferelden, but the low golden floral wreath of Andraste’s Grace blossoms in rubies and diamonds had been the favored tiara of Queen Jamesina Camblair, King Vanedrin’s wife, Maric’s great-grandmother. The Crown and Queen Jamesina’s tiara and parure were all that had been recovered of the state and personal jewels of the Theirins. Everything else had been taken apart for the precious metals and gems, or sold or given to various Orlesian nobility, during the Occupation.

It was the very definition of fashion statement, in this case.

Erlina shadowed her up to the door of Rosaire’s suite, silent in her support, but stopped a few steps from his door, staying outside to keep watch.

Lord Rosaire Desrochers answered in much the same clothes he usually wore, a relatively loose shirt and pants of fine material that he’d brought with him from Emprise, detail embroidered to show his parentage and status. The indoor boots and coat he wore, though, were entirely Fereldan, from the leather to the lambswool lining. He needed them to counteract the unsuitability of his wardrobe, coming as it did from tailors’ shops by the warm ports of Jader.

“Oh! Your Royal Highness- I’m sorry, did I miss an invitation?”

Anora pressed the fingers of her right hand together. She couldn’t clench her hands or anything else so obvious, but the press of the band of the large gold and ruby ring she wore was comforting. She could picture it in her mind’s eye- a piece of Queen Jamesina’s parure, a cabochon ruby set in gold with the arms of Ferelden carved in relief on the stone. Queen Jamesina had been the last Queen to rule Ferelden, sharing the duties with her husband King Vanedrin. The last royal couple before Ferelden had fallen. She wondered what that Queen would have thought of the choice she was making now.

She inclined her head slightly, and Rosaire remembered that he had her on the threshold. He stepped aside and showed her in. Anora swept towards the small, elegant couch situated in the middle of the entrance sitting room, startling a maid who jumped and outright stared at her a moment before remembering herself. The elf woman curtsied quickly and fled the suite when Anora made a little twitch of her fingers towards the door.

“No, nothing like that,” she told Rosaire, taking the couch and settling her skirts. She had to firmly remove her hands from her lap, otherwise she would fiddle with the cloth, and that wouldn’t do. “Sit.”

Rosaire hesitantly took the chair across from her.

“I have come to my decision in the matter of my second husband.”

“Congratulations, then, and my wishes for your happiness,” Rosaire told her. “If I- if I may? Do you have recommendations about who best to approach for a learned correspondence? I’ll be happy to return to Emprise with the acquaintance of Brother Genitivi and the Hero, but if there’s anyone else you know of…?”

“Lord Desrochers,” Anora said. “I wish for _you_ to be my second husband and Prince-Consort of Ferelden.”

Rosaire stared at her a minute, pulling his thoughts onto a new track. Anora had seen him do it often enough at gatherings that she knew what that looked like, now.

“But Maxwell Trevelyan-”

“Will someday make an excellent Seneschal or Ambassador or even spymaster for his sister Evelyn when she inherits Ostwick,” Anora told him. “My first husband, Andraste keep his soul, was no statesman despite being the titular King. _I_ was the true ruler of Ferelden for the five years of his reign, and I have ruled alone since. I have no particular need for a husband skilled in the Game. I could much rather do with a man who truly cares, both for me and for the people. Cailan did so, despite his other failings. I have found you have none of his greatest flaws but possess his greatest virtues, and there is little more I could ever want.”

There was a moment’s pause, as he was still caught up in the situation.

“I’m Orlesian?”

“Politically unfortunate, but in your case, easily overlooked.”

“I’m a bastard?”

“So is Lord-Captain Mac Maric, who would have been King but for the Arl-Commander’s support of his wish to refuse the crown.”

“There has to be more to being Prince-Consort than you think I’m a nice person and could be a good friend.”

“If you require a more political reason for my offer of engagement,” Anora said, finally letting the smile she’d been suppressing creep across her face. “The relationship between myself and the Arl-Commander has always been strained. I find him eternally frustrating, but you appear to have a way with him. You could be a great asset to our future relations. As well, our neighbors to the south are Dalish, and I find myself in need of someone who can advise me on the topic.”

“You really want the Warden-Commander for that, Your Royal Highness.”

“I have promised to make a diplomatic mission to the Dalish city to open official relationships, and I was hoping to conduct it after I closed this special season of Court. Summer is the most inviting time to be near the Kocari Wilds, and I would of course want my husband-to-be along with me on the journey so that he could acclimate to our unique political situation.”

She _knew_ she’d hooked him with that. That should have been an easy _‘yes’_ , she could see it in his eyes, but he still said nothing.

“I…” he finally managed, but trailed off.

He wanted to say yes. She was certain of it. But there was that hesitance, that- disbelief? No. That uncertainty that this was right.

“Rosaire,” she said, and leaned forward enough to reach out and place a hand on his knee. “If you go back to Emprise, you will only ever be the Assessor of the Marquisate. I am certain you would do a fine job. But I am also certain that, as my Prince-Consort, you would find yourself much the happier and be putting your skills to better use. I want to see that. I want to see the sort of man you could be, if given the room to grow.”

His eyes flicked down to the floor.

“You flatter me, Your Royal Highness.”

“It is the truth as I see it. If you wish to return to Emprise, I will not begrudge you, and I would hope that we could continue our acquaintanceship into friendship and exchange correspondence. I _could_ live with Maxwell Trevelyan as my husband. I do not think I wouldn’t come to enjoy his company or his skill at politics. We could do great things together for the interests of Ferelden in Orlais and the Marches and in smoothing relations with Antiva. But I could do those things alone. I would rather have a throne beside a man who would do great things for Ferelden that last longer than mere arrangements between fickle powers. My people love me, and I would like to show my love in return with more than simply the safety and integrity of their country. I would see their minds and hearts attended to. That is the not job for one who thrives on the Game.”

“Then,” Rosaire answered. “I suppose I must accept. I am honored and grateful for your choice, Your Royal Highness.” 

“I would be _‘Anora’_ to you, and you _‘Rosaire’_ to me.”

“Well,” he said, and his own smile slowly appeared. “I’m glad to have a reason to stay in Ferelden, Anora. Thank you for that.”

Very soon there would be letters to write and considerations for the marriage contract and ceremony to begin discussing, and other candidates to see and inform of the news; but for right now she was happy to sit quietly in this room and smile contentedly with her fiancé.

* * *

The first thing he’d done was write his father. That had been an official letter, less formal than the one the Quee- _Anora_ was sending, but containing much the same information. A much more personal one had been sent to his mother.

His epistolary issue had been confined to the problem of the format of his next contribution to the academic correspondence circle- should the many, many things he’d learned from the Warden-Commander come first, and the news of his engagement to Anora be a surprise at the end; or should he begin with that, and use it as a preface to contextualize the fact that the extraordinary detail he could include about the Dalish would only get even better?

 News first, he’d decided, because the knowledge would be even better knowing there was more to come.

Drafting that letter had been his break from the sudden descent of professional sartorial types. Anora meant to keep the news as quiet as possible before her official announcement to the nobility, which meant that haste and excellence were of the essence. She had proposed to him in the morning, they had done preliminary discussion over lunch, the afternoon had been devoted to the tailor and jeweler, and dinner had been taken in private with Anora and Erlina to discuss the procedure of the official announcement to the nobility.

Which was today.

The day after.

Things were going very quickly. He could understand the want to control the knowledge of the engagement and the need to have the special session of court end so that everyone could be back to oversee the busy spring and summer months on their lands, but it also would have been nice to have a couple days to breathe and adjust.

His clothes for the court appearance had been mysteriously delivered before he’d woken, probably before the sun had come up with the same servants that restoked the fires so that he could get out of bed without immediately freezing.

They were very Fereldan, though leaning more towards the Avvar and Chasind side of Alamarri culture. As a foreigner he didn’t have a tartan as his own; and up until the marriage he wouldn’t be allowed the Gwaren or Theirin tartans- though was Anora even using the Theirin tartan? He didn’t know. Either way, while he couldn’t wear the tartan that didn’t mean he couldn’t wear the colors, and that was clearly what Anora had commissioned from the tailors from the day before. The shirt was a fine cream color, and the tunic with the long v-cut down the front was a green so dark it was almost black. The dress coat to go over it was a warm, rich light brown, and the lack of closures served to show off the foxfur lining the inside at more than the thick ruff of it in the high neck. The loose pants matched the shirt, barely visible between the bottom of the tunic and the top of the tooled and embroidered boots, dyed to match the color of the coat and with a belt for over the tunic to match.

It was certainly impressive that all of that had been pulled together essentially overnight, but even more surprising was the fact that it had come with a livery collar that he _knew_ had to have been sized and finished up, at least, only yesterday or in the dark of the not-yet-morning. Ferelden had never had a Prince-Consort since the Occupation, and he knew from his studies that Ferelden had recovered almost nothing of their former crown jewels. As it was, this chain of gold medallions, studded with dark bloodstone and diamonds, was no small investment.

And he was to wear all _this,_ because he was going to be marrying the Queen of Ferelden. Ferelden, that was hardly fond of Orlesians; but also Ferelden that reminded him so much of home and had a Queen who wanted what he liked doing and needed his knowledge of what his intellectual passions were.

He could do this.

Rosaire dressed, and waited. Erlina arrived and walked him quickly to a side room just off the throne hall.

“Once the nobility have assembled, the herald will call you and Anora,” Erlina reminded him. “She will be walking out from the other side of the room. Meet her at the throne. There is a seat there for you, but she’ll give a speech first before either of you can sit. This is a gathering for only a few hours, long enough for the speech and for mingling and congratulations to you and her.”

She left him, then, and he waited alone in the room for what felt like a very, very long time.   

Eventually he began to hear the muffled noises of a large group of people in the next room. He got up from his seat, fidgeted, tried to put himself back in order, and started pacing so that he wouldn’t mess his clothes up again.

The herald’s voice was loud and clear, even through the door.

“Lords of Ferelden, I present to you- Her Royal Highness Anora Mac Tir, Queen of Ferelden by the blessing of Andraste and the conviction of the Landsmeet; and her chosen husband, His Lordship Rosaire Desrochers, Prince-Consort Apparent!”

* * *

If Rosaire was going to be Prince-Consort, he might have to come to Denerim more often. He’d mentioned this to Zevran, and Zevran had laughed at him.

If they did come to the capital more often, Theron felt as though he’d do better. He’d even accomplished politics today. The room hadn’t moved, even after Anora had finished her speech, so he’d stepped up and hugged Rosaire. That had brought Fergus coming along behind him, and Arl Bryland, and even Arl Mallory, who kept making jibes at Rosaire now that she was bereft of Arl Eamon to spite, right up until Theron asked them both how they handled cold weather living in their respective birthplaces, I’m only really familiar with cold weather in the forest-

So he was fairly pleased when Damien handed him a note as he returned from court, Zevran on one arm and Alistair walking on his far side.

_To the Warden-Commander of Ferelden._

_We have no knowledge of a ‘Leontius’ Amell. However, a talented junior enchanter of ours by the name of Solona Amell fled the tower with Neria Surana. I suggest that you question your newest recruits about this deception. I will await your reply in writing or in the form of Solona Amell returned to the Circle for her dishonesty._

_By the hand of First Enchanter Irving of the Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold._

This was strange.

“Do you know where Leontius is?” he asked Damien.

“I believe he is practicing in the yard with Captain Anders and Ser Tabris.”

Theron headed off to the back gardens, Zevran staying with him rather than leaving to change out of court clothes. Alistair followed as well, and presently they arrived in the area used for practice. Anders was drilling Leontius in defense against armed enemies who had closed distance with Kallian and Fenris as the _‘enemies’_. Neria, now too pregnant to be allowed martial practice, sat on a bench off to the side and observed.

Kallian broke off to salute him as she saw their approach, and Anders used the opportunity to attack her. Fenris caught his staff on one arm before Anders had completed the move, and then threw his weight at the mage, body and staff existing momentarily in the same space as the blue glow of lyrium moved Fenris halfway into the Fade. They went down and hit the gravel, Anders complaining that that was _cheating._

“I could do the same thing,” Theron pointed out to him.

“You’re still using Justice’s spirit warrior thing?”

“Well, not since I left Amaranthine, after. He was sort of… sharing a part of the Fade he was pulling on with me. I never actually asked how to do it without him there.”

“I’d say ask him in the Fade, he’s been hanging around, but you’re plenty tough without it, Commander.”

“It’s not about that. It was interesting.”

“ _‘Spirit warrior thing’_?” Alistair asked.

“You remember when we were looking for the Lady of the Forest, and I picked up that crystal, and it had the soul of the old El’vhen arcane warrior in it? It’s like that, except you need a spirit because you’re not a mage.”

“Just… be careful with it if you’re going to experiment?”

“Of course,” Theron promised. “Justice could probably help again.”

“I will be somewhat happier knowing there is a way weapons could not hit you,” Satheraan murmured. “But you came here for another matter?”

Yes he had.

“Leontius, First Enchanter Irving wrote and he said you’re a woman and your name is Solona?”

He knew he’d said something wrong almost before he’d finished the question. Leontius flinched back defensively at _‘woman’_ and huddled in on himself, taking a step back, and then suddenly Fenris exclaimed in pain and fell backwards off Anders. Kallian lunged for Fenris and then Anders was in his face.

Their sudden closeness wasn’t what startled him. It was the fact that Anders opened his mouth, but then yelled wordlessly in his face. The feel of the air changed just slightly and Theron put his armored body between Zevran and the sudden magic. It deflected off his enchanted silverite and Alistair darted out of the way. He had his sword halfway drawn before Theron caught up to what was going on.

“Everyone _stop,_ ” he ordered, consciously putting cold authority into it, and no one made any more movements to attack.

He shot a look over at Alistair, who pushed his sword fully back into its sheath before Anders could notice. Their healer was breathing heavily in the controlled way of someone fighting off pain, hands clutched to the side of his waist. There was a bloody knife in the lower corner of Theron’s vision.

“I may have just stabbed him in the kidney,” Zevran admitted quietly, embarrassed, and the wordless scream made sense now. Theron checked on Fenris. Kallian was tugging on his leather-covered armor, trying to get to a spot on his chest.

Leontius had backed up against the wall and slid down to curl up near the ground.   

“Anders?”

“I- _agh,_ the _fuck-_ ”

“I am _sorry,_ ” Zevran said. “It was reflex! It was easiest from that position to reach you-”

“I know the state of my kidney, thank you very much!” Anders snapped at him. Magic glowed through his fingers for a few seconds, and then he straightened. His hands were as bloody as Zevran’s knife, but the stain on the cloth of his armor wasn’t spreading.

“Heal Fenris, Anders,” Theron told him. “And then we are going to sit down and talk about this.”

“We’re not misbehaving children,” Alistair grumbled, taking the steps necessary to sit down on the gravel next to them anyway.

“This is a good strategy for any group,” Theron disagreed, and sat down as well, putting Alistair on one side and Zevran on the other. Neria herded Leontius over, and they sat down across from them. Kallian and Fenris, once Anders had finished healing the burn he’d caused from calling fire to his hands, sat down between Leontius and Satheraan, while Anders placed himself between Alistair and Neria, arms crossed and glaring.

“What was in Enchanter Irving’s note was obviously hurtful to you, Leontius,” Theron said. “I didn’t know it would be, and I’m sorry. I would have done something differently if I’d known. Could you tell me what hurt you, so I’ll know not to do it again?”

His newest Warden was a clear mess of anxiety and fear, and Neria pressing into his side with her arm around him didn’t seem to be helping.

“I’m not-” Leontius gasped. “I had to leave- I couldn’t- they kept- _I’m not-_ ”

Theron waited patiently.

“It _hurts_ and it’s _wrong_ I’m _not a-_ I’m a _man-!_ ”

“He _had_ to leave!” Anders jumped in. “He’d _die!_ The Circles are controlled by the Chantry and they’d yell about the _‘Tevinter perversion’_ and-”

Fenris snorted. Theron looked over at him.

“It is tolerated only in the very powerful and those without,” he said. “ _A_ Magister too strong in magic to be taken down. Bedslaves forced into it. For anyone else, it is treated the same as impersonating a Magister or Altus. A death sentence. A Soporati officer like the Magister was discovered in the army the year I ran. They killed many to _‘purge the ranks of the Antivan deviance’_ and _‘preserve the morality of our soldiers’_.”

“Well it is hardly Antivan and soldiers are hardly moral,” Zevran said. “I have known of prostitutes who dressed differently than their bodies would first suggest, but I was under the impression that they did this because there are many who find _‘Orlesian style’_ prostitutes quite sexy.”

Theron found it slightly disappointing that there wasn’t an Orlesian here to tell them what the Orlesian’s opinion of this was.

“So this is a human thing,” he said instead.

“ _I’d_ never heard of it,” Alistair said.   

Kallian was glancing around the circle. Theron caught her eye and held it until she finally spoke.

“ _I’d_ thought it was an elf thing,” she told them, every bit of her projecting defensiveness. “It’s common enough to _us._ They’re called _‘alinsal’_ , or _‘anteshal’_.”

“Oh, I know _‘anteshal’_!” Theron said, happy to be back on firmer ground. “But for the Dalish it’s the word for people who can’t eat certain things without getting sick or dying, or people who can’t stand certain amounts of light or noise, or certain tastes or textures, or people who need things _exactly_ a certain way to be comfortable, or need everything very structured, or who are born sick and stay sick their whole lives, or don’t grow enough or grow too much or just in a way that causes problems, or sort of get stuck in their minds at a certain age, or have trouble communicating, or sense things that aren’t real sometimes or maybe can’t connect to reality at all, or who have a lot of trouble having the energy to live and need help and simple things to do when they’re like that, or who get upset easily, or are scared of things so much that maybe they never feel safe.”

“I don’t think we have a word for that,” Kallian said. “ _‘Anteshal’_ has always been someone who lives as a gender that wasn’t what people expected them to. The only difference between it and _‘alinsal’_ is what Alienage you’re from.”

“Linguistically they technically mean about the same thing,” Theron thought aloud, picking the words apart. “ _‘Anteshal’_ is _‘differently… lifed’_?”

There wasn’t a verb he knew in Trade that really worked, and he had to come up with another way to put it.

“ _‘Having a soul that is not like those of other people’_ ,” he finally decided. “ _‘Alinsal’_ is _‘other soul’_. I suppose that’s just a simpler way of putting it.”

“So there are other people like Leontius?” Neria asked. She was hugging her friend with both arms, now, shielding him with her embrace.

“You don’t _talk_ about _alinsal_ outside of the Alienage,” Kallian said, but kept up her explanation anyway. “Male _alinsal_ usually work on the docks or hauling things. If humans got one alone in a group- it’s the same reason that female _alinsal_ only look for work outside the Alienage if things are _really_ bad. It’s safer forp them to do laundry and mending and child-watching for the neighbors. If some rich shem or lord decided he wanted an elf maid and found _her-_ it’s happened before. Not in my lifetime. But usually you don’t even get the body back. It’s easier for the twice- _alinsal_. They can pretend they’re a man _or_ a woman outside the Alienage. Twice as many job opportunities. Twice as many clothing options too, so they can just buy whatever’s cheapest since it’s all the same to them. It’s a good deal. Kind of like how having enough female _alinsal_ around means that there’s more other women or girls free to add a house servant’s income to a family. That’s why-”

She cut herself off and shook her head violently when Theron motioned for her to continue.

“All right,” he said, picking up the discussion. There were so many other questions he had, but now wasn’t the time. “When we get your records, Leontius, we’ll change the name in them. That’s easy enough. Now there are apologies.”

There were some confused expressions.

“Anders,” he pressed.

“I didn’t-” he started to protest.

“You were trying to protect Leontius, I think,” Theron said. “And that’s good. You _should_ protect your people. But you didn’t have to hurt Fenris to do it. You should have asked him to let you up. I _knew_ that I’d just hurt Leontius, I could see it; but even if I hadn’t that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take the extra moments to keep _other_ people from getting hurt.”

Anders sulked, but Alistair elbowed him and he did actually apologize. 

“Is there anyone else who has something they need to say?” Theron asked, and Alistair’s face did such a strange thing that he would have pressed, except that Zevran saw him noticing and shook his head slightly. So he let it go. For now. He declared the conversation closed, and Alistair bolted for the estate as Anders started getting the interrupted training session put back together. He went to follow his friend, but Zevran put a hand on his chest.

“Let me handle this,” he requested, keeping his voice low, and Theron didn’t understand but nodded in acquiescence. Zevran slipped off to follow Alistair, and, unexpectedly, Kallian took his place.

“Ser,” she said. She wasn’t entirely comfortable, he realized. The volume of her speech was only one indicator; and the way her hands were clenched was a better one. “I was going to say- do you want to know more about it? _Alinsal_?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what I was going to say and didn’t,” she told him. “Is that the whole thing with working in the Alienage and not in shem houses, that’s a big part of why some of the other people in the Alienage didn’t like Shianni. They felt like she was stealing jobs they should have been able to take. But Shianni’s always done what she wants.”

Kallian walked away quickly, back to Fenris and the mages, and Theron stood there a moment, ruminating on what he’d learned, before wandering down to Shianni’s office to have a talk.  

* * *

Morrigan’s only plan for the day had been to have time to herself in the afternoon after using the morning to teach her son about his magic.

She was _displeased_ that this plan had been interrupted.

“Have you nowhere _better_ to be?”

“How?” Alistair asked, uncharacteristically desperate. “ _How?_ You love him and you’re _here_ and you have a _son_ with him and _how?_ How can you live with him, like this, always there but never-”

Theron as she’d first met him was clear in her mind. He’d been the only one not perturbed by her, in the ruins in the Wilds. The rest had been babbling about witches in witless ignorance, but Theron had looked her right in the eyes and spoken Chasind to her. He’d been polite, even to Flemeth, and she had been… not displeased when Flemeth had saved him, even if she had known very well that it was not out of altruism.

Later, he’d acted pleased to have her around. That first night in camp in the Wilds, heading towards Lothering, he’d spoken to Alistair by their fire and then fled to hers, spooked. She’d asked no questions but he’d had ones for her, about her life in the Wilds. At the time it had been unwelcome and annoying, even when he agreed that humans who weren’t Chasind or Avvar were very strange; but with years between then and now she could acknowledge that in reality she had been defensive about her lack of social abilities and unable to comprehend that she could actually enjoy another person’s company.

She still wore the silver bracelet of twisting elfroot and the Chasind-style gold necklace he’d given to her that night. Other pieces she would switch out as she pleased, but these two were special. At first, as a statement of defiance because he couldn’t tell her she was allowed to leave whenever she wanted and then try to _bribe_ her; then, as gifts from her only friend; and ever since leaving him in Denerim, a reminder of the man she had quite unexpectedly fallen in love with.

“Because _I_ am able to accept when I have lost.”

Morrigan didn’t know when she’d fallen in love with Theron. She only knew when she’d realized it was never going to come to anything- the morning after she and Zevran had rescued him from Fort Drakon, and Theron had come out of his room with Zevran the next morning warm and well-pleasured with his vallas’lin repaired.

The next night, she’d asked him if there could have been something, if things had been different. _‘If it hadn’t been Zevran that tried to kill you’_ , she’d meant. She and he had been the closest of the group for months, sharing Chasind and El’vhen and the wariness of Fereldans’ gazes. Leliana had never quite fit, and Theron had taken quite a long time to move past the fact that Alistair had almost been a Templar. She’d had her chance in their time on the road, from Ostagar to Lothering to their stint in the Brecilian to the ridiculous tragedy that had been Redcliffe. By the time Zevran had made his attempt, they’d been on the road to Orzammar and she’d already known that she would do what she must to end this Blight with Theron in her bed and not Alistair.

If she had only moved earlier, in the Brecilian or in the rooms Eamon had given them before they’d left Redcliffe, she could have had more than that single night. He could have been treating her so gently, so kindly, caring for her pleasure and treating her like the lady she still wasn’t, that entire time.

Morrigan knew because she’d asked him if they could have had something, and he’d said _‘yes’_.

“I _also_ know how to accept what I am given and make enough out of it!”

One good night, Kieran, and his friendship. She could have been much poorer. Theron was the first and only she’d had to her bed, and unless she came into extremely unexpected circumstances, it would remain that way.

“At least you have Kieran,” Alistair said bitterly. “You’re in love with him too but you _have_ something with hi-”

Morrigan snapped shut the book she’d been perusing and smacked him with it.

“You are his brother Warden, you _blithering idiot!_ You understand his life in a way that I never will, nor Zevran either! You have Ostagar, you have the Taint! You share dreams of darkspawn and whispers and the Archdemon seeking as you slept and when the time comes do not _dare_ to try and tell me that you will not go with him into the Roads; for your Callings will not be so far apart!”

“I could bear it better knowing he did not go alone,” Zevran said quietly.

They both startled, Alistair whirling around and Morrigan taking a step back without thinking about it.

 _“Don’t,”_ Alistair begged, and Morrigan had the pressing urge to smack him again for this _wallowing_ and _dramatics_ and inability to just _live with it._ Life more often than not was unfair and there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. You snarled at the hurts and armed yourself against their reoccurrence and _moved on._ “ _Don’t._ Just- just _stop mocking me._ He’s _yours_ and-”

“Since when have I mocked you on this?” Zevran asked. The confusion sounded genuine, and Morrigan _did_ actually smack Alistair before he could respond. It doubtless would have been imbecilic and self-pitying and entirely unneeded. “I have only be reassuring you.”

“Since _when?_ ”

“Since the beginning? I was the one who pushed you into admitting it, you remember. And I also have been continuing to encourage you when the opportunity arises? I distinctly remember telling you that you could not steal him from me.”

“Because he’s _yours,_ I _know!_ I _know_ he chose you I _know_ he won’t take a-”

Zevran threw his hands up and Morrigan began weighing her options about the feasibility of smacking _him_ as well.

“You cannot _steal_ him from me because I know that you cannot stop him from loving me! He will not leave me but that does not mean he cannot also love _others_ and be loved in return! It is very simple! _Ask him_ if he loves you as such and discussions can be had about relationships! _Both_ of you!”

And that was enough to give Morrigan pause. Alistair as well. Zevran stood there, hands on his hips, and huffed.

“If nothing comes of your desires for a changed relationship with Theron, it will not be because _I_ am unwilling,” he declared, and walked off.

Hope was a cruel thing, Morrigan would have answered for most of her life, if asked. Truthfully, it was likely she’d still say it, but- things had a way of working out, with Theron involved. And he was not a cruel man.

Perhaps…

* * *

It had taken almost five months.

Five months was a long time to worry, Nathaniel reasoned. So it was just that he’d finally managed to use it all up. Detached calm was more useful for receiving letters hand-delivered by a Warden out of Amaranthine on a winded horse. He was lucky, and should be thankful.

“Have you eaten today, Warden Winoc?” Nathaniel asked the older woman. Like many of the others, she was a Blight veteran of the army and raised militias. That made her haste and the worry on her face that much more alarming- or it would have, if Nathaniel hadn’t found his calm.

She shook her head.

“Dinner is on in the kitchen, Warden. Go eat.”

“Respect, Constable,” she said. “But I’ve got more to the message once you’ve read it.”

The letter had three wax seals. Two were plain, one a thick blue blob from the Wardens’ stores and one a drippy brown mess tipped from a common beeswax candle. They flanked a neat seal stamped with the arms of Amaranthine.

Nathaniel broke the unstamped seals and carefully lifted off the official one with a knife.

_To the Warden-Commander, Constable, and Captains._

_Grand Cleric Candide has taken action. A Chasind apostate named Vlas Makari, known by Wardens Ilya Kir, Mikhael Ruslan, and Grisha and Bell Mackay, arrived four days ago to volunteer for the Grey. Eight hours behind him came a group of Templars. We refused them entry, per previous assertions on the matter, and they decamped to just beyond the understood boundary of the Vigil settlement. Unbeknownst to us, they sent one of their number on to Amaranthine to ask the help of the Grand Cleric. She sent one Ser Darmond Sayer of our previous acquaintance, along with his partner Ser Rosslyn Marchant and two junior Templars, Kitt Funke and Zoe Elster. We include these names as Ser Marchant is very recently of Nevarra, and his information from former contacts in Kirkwall, combined with both the information given previously to Ser Sayer to persuade him of the wisdom of leaving the Wardens to their business and Ser Funke’s two-week stint in Kirkwall, the entirety of her career as a Templar to date, have left the group determined to fight the Taint wherever it may be found, particularly in the case of lyrium. They expressed their wish to join the Wardens and were allowed access to the Vigil, under oath of tolerance and civility. They have so far behaved honorably, even in the face of the lyrium habits of the Voshai and Warden Viktory Arendt’s deep-held hatred of Templars._

_The other Templars and Grand Cleric Candide took exception. The Grand Cleric rode to the Vigil with another group of Templars and demanded entry. We again refused. She loudly accused us of harboring Maleficar and dangerous apostates and anti-Chantry radicals. **We** took exception. The Voshai took to the ramparts to loudly recite the Chant at her. The Grand Cleric responded by taking residence in the Vigil settlement and preaching against magic, pagans, heretics, etc. to the market and passers-through. The settlement became anxious. _

_Matters escalated when the Wardens camped in the Arl’s woods broke their camp and came to reinforce our denial of entry to the Grand Cleric and her Templars. The Templars would not allow them passage through to the Vigil on the grounds that **they** were not allowed into the Vigil. The Wardens formerly camped in the woods wisely agreed not to press the issue too aggressively, and reestablished their camp just outside of the Templars’ camp. The next morning, four days into the disturbance, Wardens Leonie Caron and Nelle Ehoux returned from their errand to Orlais. The Templars and the Grand Cleric denied them entry, the issue was pressed as said Wardens were on official business that the Chantry has no say in interrupting, and a minor armed altercation between the Templars and the Wardens outside the Vigil ensued. Wardens Leonie and Ehoux were able to reach the safety of the Vigil, reporting unfortunate news from Orlais and bearing equally unfortunate correspondence for the Warden-Commander. _

_During the commotion, another was able to gain entry to the Vigil, undetected by anyone until her presence was announced by her own self. She is an Antivan Crow and has identified herself as Mahendra Arainai, acting on behalf of an entity known as The Archivist. She claims to come bearing pressing information for Messere Revasina and Her Royal Highness Queen Anora, and an offer for the Arl-Commander and Her Royal Highness. We felt it unwise to attempt to evict her, given Messere Revasina’s remarkable skills learned from the same organization, and have placed her under watch of a rotation of Wardens Mhequi, Ewan Mac Lynne, Asya Deckons, and Vuli Gremm. While general tension is high and her presence is a contributing factor, she has been entirely well-behaved and offered to deliver this letter to Warden Eire Winoc, who was in the encampment, to avoid another confrontation. As you are reading this, she has again been truthful and cooperative._

_Please return to Vigil’s Keep with due speed and a means to address the current situation._

_By the hand of Lady Delilah Stockard, Seneschal of the Arling of Amaranthine. From herself;_ _Mhequi_ _, Acting Warden-in-Command at the Vigil_ ; _and Nadie Maverlies, Captain of the Vigilant Guard_

That seemed comprehensive.

“What’s your addition, Warden Winoc?”

“We decamped from the Arl’s woods because of the arrival of a third group of Templars, these escorting a group of mages and civilians fled from the Free Marches and seeking sanctuary,” she reported. “Bruce and Jamesina caught them in Arlstoll before they went up to the Vigil and got involved. We gave them our campsite and went to distract the Grand Cleric and _her_ Templars to protect them.”

“Your own initiative, Warden?”

“It’s what Anders would want, ser,” she said, and saluted him. “And Captain Alistair and the Warden-Commander. I don’t know the Commander well myself but I’ve been under the Captain’s command up at the Peak with the Voshai and the mages for most of my service; and we all know about Anders, ser, and Sigrun told us about Caron and Warden-Keeper Velanna. I was also at the Battle of Denerim, ser, and those mages saved our asses more than once and ours in the Wardens are good people and the Captain’s told us about Morrigan and Enchanter Wynne and what-all they got up to during the Blight with the blood mages and mad apostates and demons and darkspawn emissaries. Seems to me, ser, that our policy on mages is we kill the ones that are hurting people and recruit them as wants to Join and leave the rest be to their business; and I sure as Andraste’s sword know that our business is killing darkspawn and protecting people, and those we found in Arlstoll had a mighty need of protection. Ser.”

It was _so nice_ not worrying.

“How many and who?”

“Got two Templars out of Ostwick and two mages the same. Something about rescuing one of the mages from a transfer to Kirkwall, and the other’s sister to one of the Templars. Five Templars from Kirkwall and five mages, plus the sister of one of the Templars, wife of one of the mages, and two kids another picked up. Also got an apostate type escorting a Qunari and a Dalish lady that joined up somehow. Apostate took down a list of names for the officers, and the Kirkwallers said they knew Anders and a Varric Tethras sent them on here.”

Nathaniel got the list from her, sent her to go eat, and trotted off to find Anders. He was in with Lady Bethany and her sister and Merrill. He gave Anders the letter, summarized _“Marchers looking for sanctuary and hiding from the Chantry, advised by Varric Tethras”_ from Eire Winoc’s report, and then handed him the list.

“Andraste’s _ass,_ ” Anders swore when he saw the list. “Varric wasn’t kidding around, Hawke, we know a _lot_ of these names.”

“Yeah?”

“ _Ser Thrask_ is leading them, for one. And there’s Grace and Alain, the Starkhaven ones; and Keran we saved from the blood mage and his helpful friend Hugh. Keran’s sister came along too, and Arianni- Feynriel’s mother, you remember-”

“ _Oooh!_ ” Merrill exclaimed happily, jumping up and looking at the list herself. “Oh, Nyssa found Huon again, that’s so good! Nyssa and Arianni were very kind to me in the Alienage, I’m glad they’re safe.”

“Warden Howe?” Lady Bethany said. “There are Trevelyans on this list. Like…”

“There are many branches of the Trevelyans,” Nathaniel informed her. “Maxwell Trevelyan is of the Ostwick Trevelyans. Given the names, I would say Irina and Avrodiy are from the Hasmal Trevelyans, despite lately being of the Ostwick Circle.”

Anders gave him a sharp look.

“Nate? You okay?”

“I knew everything was going to end in disaster,” he said, calmly. “It’s very calming to finally reach it. The worst is happening.”

“Oh, for-!” his friend said under his breath. “The worst is _not_ happening, Nate, things could be _so much worse_ than this. We need to go find Oghren and Alistair and the Commander. You left Mhequi in charge of the Wardens?”

“She was the best choice I had.”

“I would have picked someone else, myself,” Anders said, standing and pulling him out of the room.

“Who?”

“Well, there’s – huh. Andreas is here, Rhannur is out of the country and so are Leonie and Nell, Oghren is here too...”

“Exactly.”

“Right, right. Pull yourself together, we need to go report this to the others.”

It wasn’t hard to find them. Warden Winoc had gone down to eat dinner, and of course the appearance of an unexpected new Warden had been passed around to those who were already there. The Arl-Commander, his fiancé, Alistair, Oghren, Lockhard, Andreas, Tamlen, Leontius, and Neria had all gathered in one of the formal rooms with their food. He and Anders walked in on Winoc briefing them all on the situation. Anders read out the letter and explained the list of Marchers.

“This is enough of a Warden emergency for Anora to not be mad at me leaving before she’s dismissed court, right?” was the Commander’s first reaction.

 _“Theron,”_ his fiancé reprimanded.

“I was specifically requested so we should go back. It’s even _politics._ I should ask Leliana if she got my letter too, I think she didn’t because she hasn’t said anything and clearly Grand Cleric Candide hasn’t heard anything either.”

“We marchin’, then?” Oghren grunted.

“Proceeding quickly-”

“ _I_ am concerned about the sudden appearance of Crows,” Zevran interrupted him. “They have asked for the Queen specifically, and I feel that cannot be anything but significant.”

“Significant of what?” Alistair asked.

Zevran shrugged.

“I do not know. The names are… odd. I _did_ know a Mahendra Arainai. She was one of the almost-graduated apprentices in Arainai when I first came to Ferelden. Quiet, as I recall. _Very_ quiet, and always staying on the edges of things. I am not even entirely sure what her specialty is. And the Archivist-”

He snorted.

“-it is either someone attempting to scare me or attempting to impress me with the implication of this offered information. _‘Death happens’_ is the most known of the Crow sayings, but _‘the Archivist knows everything’_ is one only Crows say between each other. It is a thing to scare others, mostly to keep them in line. The Archive was ultimately the source of all the Crows’ knowledge and information, and it was said that the Archivist was only one who knew the extent of them.”

“So who _is_ the Archivist?” Anders asked.

Zevran shrugged.

“No one, perhaps,” he answered. “The Archive was a place for Masters and senior Crows. Contracts for bidding were delivered by the Agents of the Archive, Crows specially employed to do so. I was always rather of the opinion that is was these Agents who were the true Archivists, and that _the_ Archivist was simply a story, or perhaps the title for the most senior of them. Regardless, it is impossible to know _everything -_ and if there truly was or is such an Archivist, I would not have been able to extract myself from the Crows and I would not have been able to do to them as I did, for they would have known.”

“So… trap?” Alistair suggested.

“Possibly. There is also nothing to say that some Crows ran from Antiva with whatever they could snatch from the Archive, which could be incredibly valuable. We should retrieve it if we can. Also, given that they particularly included Queen Anora, it is possible that they have come to ransom state secrets.”

“The Crows _know_ that sort of thing?”

“My dear Alistair, the Crows have been assassinating persons of relevance and importance for seven or eight Ages. Why should you _not_ riffle through drawers and chests and safes for information once you have completed your job? Not to mention post-contract reports on exactly what happened and your impressions of those you met and interesting things you learned and so on and so forth. I would not be surprised if the Crows could have blackmailed most of the noble houses outside of the Imperium, should they have cared to do so.”

Ages of blackmail material and state secrets.

He was calm. So very calm.

“I suggest that tomorrow, _amora,_ you go to Leliana and ask her for her assistance. I will go to the palace and appraise Queen Anora of the situation. The household will have to be informed that we are planning on leaving soon, and we must arrange our transportation and travel-”

Nathaniel was calm, and he could have managed this. But it was so nice that someone else was doing this.

* * *

Generally, people did not come to see her. Leliana went to see _them._ The Left Hand of the Divine was not the sort most voluntarily wanted to see, with the exception of the Divine herself, Cassandra, and Leliana’s own agents.

So it was a surprise when she had a breakfast call in the small, sumptuous apartments set aside for her at the Denerim Consulate of the Divine. The quiet servants escorted her visitor in and set another place at the small table.

“Theron!” she greeted him happily, eagerly accepting his offered hug. “I had no idea you were coming!”

“Vigil’s Keep sent me a letter yesterday evening,” he explained, taking the chair one of the servants offered him. “Thank you. Leliana, Alistair and Morrigan and I stopped by Haven during the winter to write to you, but I’m not sure if you got the letter? We asked a Chantry Sister and she sent us to an unfriendly man named Butler and then he told us to talk to the Revered Mother but I never heard back from you, so…”

“I didn’t get a letter from you, Theron,” Leliana said. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I’ll have to tell them to forward my mail properly. And I am also sorry about Butler - he is a very good agent but not very personable. Pastry? They have honeyed ham.”

He took one of the pastries she offered, and Leliana watched with hidden amusement as he inspected it before taking a bite.

“Oh! How _do_ you honey meat?”

“I have no idea. You would have to ask a specialty butcher. Muffins? A cinnamon bun? They have icing.”

Theron perked up.

“Cinnamon in bread?”

“With sugar.”

There was a plate of them, and Leliana graciously allowed him to eat most of the small iced pastries when she saw how enthusiastic he was about them. She motioned for a servant and sent her off for drinks - she came back with a tray of herbal tisane and various additives in one hand and a pitcher of water standing over fresh sliced fruit in the other.

“This letter you received, Theron?”

“Oh, yes. Just before Satinalia the Grand Cleric in Amaranthine threatened Nathaniel - because I was in Hallarenis’haminathe so he was in charge - with seizing the Warden mages and making the ones who didn’t come properly from a Circle Tranquil unless he allowed a contingent of Templars to watch the mages like they do in Circles. Nathaniel refused and then spent a really long time terrified the Chantry was going to do something to him for it, so that’s the letter I wrote you, about all that; but last evening around dinner one of my Wardens came with a letter from the Vigil to say that a Chasind mage who’d traveled north to Join was followed by Templars and when my Wardens didn’t let them take the mage they went to the Grand Cleric and the Grand Cleric sent Templars but _those_ Templars volunteered for the Wardens so the Grand Cleric came out herself and has been preaching against me and the Wardens in the town outside the Vigil and I was wondering if you could help somehow.”

Grand Cleric Candide - Leliana quickly reviewed what she knew about the woman. Appointed just before the turn of the Age, when Orlais had felt secure in their hold on Ferelden. Orlesian, naturally. Had had no particular merits to her service but no demerits until the Blight. She’d left Amaranthine for Val Royeaux to _“petition the Divine”_ for aid, and then refused to go back because of Loghain’s hatred of Orlesians. Then, she’d been conveniently absent through the remnants of the Blight in Amaranthine and the aftermath, returning only once Our Lady Redeemer had been mostly rebuilt. And now, this.

But _why?_

“How many mages _do_ you have?” she asked Theron, to buy herself some time to think.

“Six, and nine more who either want to Join or I’m going to offer the option to.”

“Out of how many?”

“Forty-five currently Joined and twenty more volunteers or people I'll ask to Join."

Thirteen to twenty-three percent of his Wardens were or could be mages. Leliana didn’t know exact numbers, but she knew that most Warden forces had significantly more numbers overall, but tended to run light on mages. Orlais’s Wardens had a reputation under the current Commander for having lots of mages, but the total number of Wardens was a few hundred, at least, while only twenty of them, including Warden-Commander Clarel, were mages.

“Most Warden forces have a significantly smaller proportion of mages,” Leliana told him. Was the Grand Cleric’s reaction a move to make herself look better for not being in Ferelden to respond to Kinloch Hold’s request for Annulment? Or did Theron as Arl personally offend her sensibilities?

“I don’t know what they’re doing, then,” he said. “Mages are great.”

That was certainly an attitude that could put off a Grand Cleric-

“Theron,” Leliana asked, having an idea. “Where did your mages come from?”

“Anders ran away from Kinloch Hold. Leontius and Neria did too. Velanna was First for her old clan but darkspawn killed them all. Viktory we recruited from the Circle in Jainen but she was in Kirkwall before. Eadric was recruited from Kinloch. Sabrisha’s never been in a Circle.”

She didn’t have to be certain about the _‘why’_ to see some of the outcomes. She didn’t like any of them, particularly with the influx of refugees that had surely already begun arriving from Kirkwall, and those that may flee the Marches in the future as the effect of the city rippled outwards. Conflict between the Grand Cleric and the Arl and his Wardens would never go well, particularly not over the Warden mages.

Her preferred solution would be to retire Grand Cleric Candide, but that wasn’t within her power. But she knew who she’d put in her place - Revered Mother Kathleen was the Mother for the Chantry in the West Market in Denerim, where they’d taken the old scrolls from Haven. During the Battle of Denerim, Mother Kathleen had taken back up the arms and armor of her mercenary years and defended her Chantry with her own greatsword. It was properly Fereldan, and Mother Kathleen’s origins in the foothills of Niall’s Baloch would sit well with the country. Her old mercenary experience and childhood proximity to the Brecilian would hopefully work in Theron’s favor.

“I will come with you to see the Grand Cleric,” she told Theron. “And see what can be done.”

* * *

“I could just schedule you time every few days,” Anora told Zevran, amused, as he arrived in time to take a light lunch with her.

“And I would be happy to attend, Your Royal Highness, even if all there was to discuss was the weather and gossip.”

She smiled over his head as he bowed.

“Certainly we could come up with something more intellectually stimulating?”

“If you so wished, of course. Politics, or perhaps the interpretations of the Chant, or even merely the philosophical questions of existence? I do warn you, I am invariably a hedonist and will not be swayed by southern severity.”

“Come, sit,” she told him, patting the other seat at the table and shifting the small bowl of sorbet from the tail ends of last summer’s late fruits towards him, so they could share. “What is it today?”

“An issue at the Vigil,” Zevran told her. “A conflict with the Grand Cleric that had been hoped to be deflected has returned.”

The story of it was concerning, but Anora let herself be reassured by the fact that the Warden-Commander was addressing it with the Left Hand. It was _not_ her problem.

“The truly concerning part, however, is that there is a Crow who has made her way to the Vigil and is apparently offering information and some sort of deal.”

“A _Crow?_ ”

They were becoming an annoying constant, as of late. Anora would have liked a few months’ break from them.

“She claims a name I know,” Zevran told her. “The letter from Lady Stockard says that she also claims to have _‘pressing information’_ for you and I, and a deal for Theron and yourself. I imagine that the deal for Theron is something like _‘please do not try to kill any more of us and we will leave you and yours alone forever because you terrify us’_ , but I truly have no idea what she wishes to speak to _me_ for.”

“And why would they involve me?”

“Let me tell you something about the organization of the Crows,” Zevran said, and leaned back in his chair. “The assassinating side is well-known enough. It was run by the eight Talon Houses, the Master of one who was also the Grandmaster of all the Crows. Every Master of every House reported to the Grandmaster eventually. Houses gained prestige based on the ability of their assassins. The more prestige a House had, the more primacy they were given in bidding for contracts and selecting apprentices. Within the Houses assassins were trained into broad specialization categories- crowd work, breaking-and-entering, sniping, poisoning, general stealth, courtesans, and artificers. The assassins themselves were divided into cells headed by cell leaders, who were the best or most senior assassins of the House, and varied in size from three to upwards of ten or fifteen at the most. Outside of the Crows various persons were hired as intimidation and muscle, servants, or strong-armed into owing a particular House a _‘debt’_ , in money or labor or favors or any combination thereof. In this way the Crows exerted enormous influence in the places where Houses chose to center themselves.

"But that does not cover the other logistics of such an organization. The Houses attempted to be as self-contained as possible, but there was the need to take in new bodies, and to receive contracts, and handle records and prisoners and the Crow Quarter in the city and other things. Responsibility for buying up child slaves or convincing various upper-class families to volunteer their children for Crow training rotated between the Talon Houses that were not providing the current Grandmaster. Velabanchel, which was the prison that the Crows used to keep those who crossed them and was the site of slow torturous death for many rebellious Crows, answered directly to the Grandmaster. The selection and distribution and filing of contracts, and the vast records of the Crows’ knowledge, and the Crows’ treasury were under the direction of the Archivist, who may or may not exist as one person and not as the name of some committee or executive group. The Archivist presumably answered to the Grandmaster but no one ever hears much about this Archivist. All rumor. They were never actually _seen._ This is who the Crow at the Vigil claims to be representing.”

“And what could this Archivist have for me that counts as _‘pressing information’_?”

“Given the nature of the Archives as I know them, Your Royal Highness, I am sorry to say that I believe it is most likely to be ransoming state secrets.”

 _That,_ she did not like. Anora couldn’t think of any state secrets off the top of her head that it made sense for the Crows to know; but _any_ state secret was far too much for the remnants of such an organization to have.

“What do you know of this Archivist?”

“Rumor only. That the Archivist knows _everything._ That there has never been a Crow who could keep a secret from them. That they are a taloned demon robed in black with a crow skull for a face; though I have unfortunately in my time encountered many demons and none have taken such a form.”

Demons were another unfortunate. At least _that_ was unlikely involved.

“Only one Crow?” she asked.

“That we know of,” Zevran confirmed.

One Crow in the midst of the Wardens of Ferelden and Zevran besides. Anora liked those odds, and of course there might be state secrets hanging in the balance.

Erlina was going to be _so upset._

“Then I suppose we must discuss travel arrangements,” she told Zevran.

“I have a thought,” he replied. “Perhaps a suggestion, for something to remedy the, ah - well. Theron. An apology. Have you some time to spare?”

Intriguing.

“Of course.”

* * *

They had almost, _almost_ managed to avoid the Feast of Sacred Ashes. Two or three days earlier, and they could have been out of Denerim riding for Amaranthine and he wouldn’t have had to spend an uncomfortable morning being lauded at a Chantry service he hadn’t wanted anything to do with in the first place and had come as a nasty surprise to him. _Apparently_ the Chantry had begun celebrating the discovery of the Urn of Sacred Ashes on the first anniversary of their discovery of it.

Theron was not pleased.

But Zevran had told them they had to go so Theron went and sat in the front with him and Alistair and Leliana, and put up with the Chant quoted at him about Andraste’s war against the Imperium without a _single_ mention of Shartan, and now they were all going to the Palace for the feast.

He was envious of Merrill and Tamlen - not that they didn’t have to come to the Chantry service or the feast, but they’d left the day before on a ship to Amaranthine with Ashalle and Marian, going back to Hallarenis’haminathe to reassure Sabrae and tell the other clans about the diplomatic overtures Anora wanted to make. They were well away from Denerim and all this – _this_ that the last month had been.

He probably should have sent Nathaniel with them too, because he’d had some sort of nervous breakdown when he’d been told about Anora and diplomacy and guests. It had been very worrying, his Constable had managed to babbling about being _‘not calm any longer!’_ and _‘not **ready** to host at the Vigil!’_. Theron had tried to reassure him, but all it had done was make it worse and Nathaniel had finally burst and begged to be dismissed from his duties and, well-

Theron was feeling guilty, was the problem, and also angry and frustrated. He’d known Nathaniel was worrying about things but he’d had no idea that his Constable had been that _scared._ He’d demoted Nathaniel on the spot and cursed himself for causing _yet another problem_ as Anders had dragged the man back to their shared room for some calming concoction and company. He couldn’t do anything right, it seemed.

The feast, at least, he was looking forward to. Food _had_ to be much better than the Chantry service had been, and then tomorrow they were finally going to _leave Denerim._

They were in the great hall of the palace for the feast, of course, the long tables from the Landsmeet used to make the two long ends of an unclosed rectangle, headed by a shorter, somewhat nicer one, Anora’s throne just off-center behind it. Reasonable, perfectly fine, things seemed ready for the food to be brought out.

What was _not_ fine was the fact that he and Zevran and Alistair and Leliana were led up to that front table, and he was sat at Anora’s right hand.

“I feel like everyone is going to be staring at me,” he told Zevran quietly. At least his fiancé was seated on his other side.

“That is the point, my dear.”

“But this is lunch.”

“This is a royal feast for a holy day,” Zevran countered, and shushed him just before Leliana led yet another prayer.

“But-” Theron tried to continue once she was done.

“Shush,” Zevran told him quietly, in El’vhen. “This is a great honor and good statecraft, hm? We four, our find is being celebrated. You are _here,_ at the place of highest honor next to the Queen, and I am here beside _you,_ as your fiancé and also, I am certain, so that I can do exactly as is occurring and explain and advise _._ Rosaire naturally is on the Queen’s other side as her fiancé. Leliana is next to _him,_ as they share Orlais. Alistair is on _her_ other side because while he is being honored here he is still somewhat unfortunate and is therefore as far away from the Queen as he can be put without causing offense. Arl Mallory is next because the Diarmagdhu family and the Arling of the Frostbacks is one of the most ancient areas of Ferelden, of the states from before Calenhad, and Arl Mallory is certain to keep Alistair engaged, and as well Haven is within her lands and so she is seated only two from Leliana. Now Arl Bryland is over here on my other side for the same reason of seniority of South Reach as its own state, and he is well-disposed to you for Nathaniel and Delilah. Teyrn Fergus is on the other side of him because while the Couslands are still an older family they are not so old as Bryland and Diarmagdhu, and he is again friendly to you. Which leaves us with our new Arl Teagan, who is most decidedly _not,_ who would otherwise be here on the Queen’s side because the Redcliffe title was created only in King Arland’s time and Arl Alfstanna is very new appointment – but well, we know quite well why there is currently a bit of a thing between us. So Teagan is entirely on the _other_ side of the table at the end, and Alfstanna is on our side.”

Theron sighed.

“ _Eventually,_ my dear,” Zevran said, and patted his arm reassuringly. “Now – conversation time.”

Anora was on one side and Zevran was on his other. Zevran would want him to talk with other people, but… Anora.

But they were supposed to be being friends now? Or friendly? But what to say?

Well. Alright. Conversation topics. What was there?

Family was right out, which was a lot of his conversation ideas. She didn’t have any children, and no clan, and there was the problem of her father. There weren’t opinions he could ask for because he didn’t really know what there was, and also it felt like there was a lot of potential there to make her annoyed that he didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t coming up with anything else besides talking about other people, and _that_ didn’t seem like it would go well, either. Maybe dogs? Did Anora have a mabari? Did she have other dogs? He hadn’t seen any around that were clearly _hers_ and not just a sort of amorphous floating population that presumably got fed at the palace’s expense or traveled along with one of the nobles or other. He _would_ ask about what she was going to later in the year, but, well, he _knew_ where she was going to be and what she was going to do already. He was going to be there too.

“Is this truly so displeasing?”

“I don’t like being shown off like this,” he replied immediately, and only registered after he’d said his words that Anora had opened conversation herself.

“You’re one to disdain honors?”

“I like being honored just fine,” Theron said. “What I don’t like is this sort of a thing. Thank me for helping. Acknowledge what I’ve done. But this is…”

He wasn’t sure he had the words.

“If it were a group of Wardens,” he said. “Or a traveling group I’d saved, or someone I’d helped, having a celebration that things worked out, or offering hospitality in return. That’s fine.” 

“My fiancé has a great affection for things being personal, my Queen,” Zevran cut in. “It is quite effective for building rapport and loyalty, and deeply appropriate for a commander, but sadly not quite the fit for nobility.”

“Alistair and Morrigan could tell you about it,” Theron supplied agreeably. “Morrigan was very pointed about the fact that we didn’t take the West Road south to get to Hallarenis’haminathe and went down through the Southron Hills instead.”

“Oh?” Anora asked, and he realized he had to clarify. On his other side, Zevran turned his attention to a conversation with Arl Bryland.

“If we took the road we’d have had to go through Lothering,” he explained. “They made a statue of me there. Everyone would have turned out and made something of it. It would have been awkward. So we avoided it.”

“You trekked through the Southron Hills in late autumn rather than spend a day being fêted.”

“I was going to see my people, not endure through adulation.”

“I suppose,” Anora said. “That I should be grateful your evident distraction and disconnect from these entire proceedings today was the result of your discomfort for display rather than religious objection.”

Her expression was clearly adding _“Unless I am mistaken?”_ to the end of that.

“Well, that doesn’t help?” Theron said.

“Even with your discovery of the Ashes, you do not believe?”

“Oh no, I believe just fine,” Theron explained. “I mean. I don’t think the _Chantry_ has it right, probably. They’ve done a lot of things that just aren’t right. They took Shartan out and they destroyed the Dales, and for people who say they’re following Andraste they’re doing a very bad job. Their interpretation of the Maker as an absent god doesn’t make much sense either – I mean, killing his favorite would be a good way to make him leave, but he’d decided to leave before that? Our gods are at least absent because they were locked away and not because of something about being mad about the morals of the world, though there’s certainly parts of the Dalish who think that holding as close to the old ways as we can will make the Evanuris stronger and better able to come back. It’s important to do that, but I’m not sure of it. But Andraste existed, and she was an honorable woman and The People remember her fondly, generally, and if a god wanted her then a god wanted her. No reason to say the Maker doesn’t exist, and I’d argue with people who say otherwise. There were spirits guarding the Ashes, and either they were the true ghosts of those they appeared to be, or they were Fade spirits bound there and the faith of those who did so was strong enough to make the impression of the those the spirits had the impression of. Either way, that’s a lot of faith, and no one believes so strongly without proof. Anyway, Leliana had a vision from the Maker and that’s why she joined up with us, and that’s a very important thing, and she’d know where it came from. I’m glad the Divine recognized her.”

Anora’s expression was unreadable. Theron rather hoped she wasn’t trying to pretend that she didn’t believe Leliana was wrong about her visions. Leliana had had a vision from her god, and that was that.

“But you say the religious aspect of this does not help you feel comfortable?”

“Just because I believe the Maker exists doesn’t mean anything about worshipping him,” Theron said. “I mean, I’m not going to be _rude._ You don’t walk into a holy place and not be respectful. But my gods are the Evanuris and even if I felt worshipping the Maker was important, the only acceptable way to do it would be on the Chantry’s terms, and I refuse. I won’t follow a group that would see The People destroyed.”

“The problem of the _‘false gods’_ does not worry you?”

“I did say I don’t think the Chantry is right,” Theron pointed out. “Andraste was Alamarri, a lot more like the Avvar or the Chasind than Fereldans nowadays. For the Avvar, _all_ spirits are gods; and for the Chasind, everything is at least a little divine. Andraste _might_ have said it was all wrong, but it doesn’t seem likely to me. Probably the Maker was just another god – maybe the most powerful? Anyway, no matter what she said, the Chant is wrong, because the Evanuris are real and spirits are real and the Old Gods of the Imperium are _absolutely_ real, I’ve seen one.”

“The Old Gods can be killed!”

“Well why not? There no reasons gods shouldn’t be able to be killed? Falon’din went into death. Ghilan’nain was mortal before Andruil made raised her to divinity, and Fen’harel was mortal once, too. You can kill spirits. Anyway, Andraste was mortal too.”

“Andraste-”

“Ghilan’nain was made an Evanuris because Andruil loved her,” Theron said. “Andraste was the Bride of the Maker. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be a god now too. Anyway – I’ve seen a lot of Chantries by now, and I’ve yet to hear of one dedicated to the Maker. They’re all named for Andraste in some way, or sometimes after one of the Anointed, and even sometimes just after who founded them or where they are. I’ve yet to hear of a Chantry with a statue of the Maker, either. It’s always Andraste, and the iconography is of her or other people from the Chant or some of the Anointed. There’s a physical description of the Maker in the Chant, I _have_ heard it, but yet-”

He’d only meant to have a short pause here for emphasis, but Zevran kicked him _hard_ under the table, and his expression was quietly horrified when Theron looked at him. He tried to arrange his own expression to convey _“but we’re having a conversation and she’s not yelling at me!”_

It didn’t seem to work, because his fiancé took over the conversation.

“Ah, my Queen, I fear you have stumbled into a trap you will not easily extract yourself from,” he told Anora. “Once started, Theron can proceed on the topic of religion and faith the nature of divinity for the rest of the day. Being a Hahren has done wonderful things for his memory, but it does rather make him able to go on and on when a topic has his interest.”

“Certainly they are _unique_ opinions,” Anora replied. “I don’t believe I have heard the like before. Is this such a common topic, then?”

“Not after this fashion, usually. Less discussion of Andraste and the Maker, and much more on Dalish custom and the histories of them and their gods.”

“Where stand you, then?”

Zevran smiled slightly. It was a bit strained, to Theron’s mind, and he put a hand on his fiancé’s knee under the table.

“I have always worshipped the Maker after my own fashion.”

“Oh?”

His expression fell.

“There was a certain necessity – well.”

The smile returned. This time, it was depreciating.

“My former life was not particularly conducive to even the common standards of morality, hm? And by and large since then I have been residing here in Ferelden, and the traditions are different enough that it has not felt quite right.”

“Things are truly so different?”

“Six years, and I’ve still to become reconciled to the idea of Chantries without bells,” was his answer. “Truly strange. _‘The sweetest song of silver soaring, o’er sea and railing rolling’_ , no? Ah – that was Giodonu. I shall have to find you some compendiums, my Queen, they are quite – I have found them moving, in my time. But yes, the bells and the Chantry steeples, and here in the south you are not so fond of high walls and roofs with windows so twice or thrice again the height of a man, colored to rival the best of sunsets or festival days. Understandable, given the problems of heating; but still, I miss it. The Sisters do not speak in Antivan or Rivaini, and of course here in the south only those Sisters and Brothers of the monastic life ever consider confession, and even then only in extraordinary circumstances. I always felt I was doing wrong by being ministered to of the Maker’s will and Andraste’s grace without revealing at least some of my failings, so I have not been in Chantries so much as I should like.”

“ _Ma’len,_ I wish you’d said something before this,” Theron told him, distressed. _Six years_ of this- “You should have your faith and be comfortable with it. Is it – I could get a Sister from Antiva? Is that something you can do? Hire Sisters? Or ask them to leave where they are and go somewhere else? Leliana went somewhere else. And Sister Eileen moved to Vigil’s Keep when everyone was living in the tents outside and stayed and now she’s Mother Eileen and no one _told_ her to go and help out but maybe it was an extraordinary circumstance-”

“ _Yes,_ Theron,” Zevran said, with a little smile. “It is possible to acquire Sisters for households of sufficient standing. Though _‘hiring’_ is not the word you would use for it. I believe the correct term is _‘retaining’_.”

“That’s the list, then,” Theron promised. “Lawyers, printers, merchant factor, clerks, tailor, accountant, cook, Antivan Sister.”

“Is that possibly the beginnings of a permanent household?” Anora asked.

“They’re the people Zevran wants to have,” Theron answered at the same time Zevran said: “Yes.”

“Though I’m the one who wants the printers,” Theron concluded.

“He would spoil me,” Zevran told Anora.

Theron took his hand under the table and looked him in the eyes.

“You deserve everything you want,” he told his fiancé. Zevran covered his impending blush with his wine glass.

“A permanent household will serve you well come Justinian,” Anora said. She sounded approving, which was good, but-

“For the ball,” she clarified, eyebrows raising slightly at his confusion. “Celebrating my betrothal.”

“We’re hosting it,” Zevran put in. “It will be the Queen, what nobility finds themselves able to attend, and Rosaire’s family.”

 _When_ had _this_ been decided.

“We are making up for the unfortunate, ah, _everything_ of this court season. Do not worry, I sent word ahead to Delilah with your sister and Marian.”

“I have also invited the Empress,” Anora said, and took a bite of her food. “As a matter of course, for the event of a royal marriage between countries with our history. For grandeur – and _funds,_ in these times – there is no better place for impressing Orlesians than Amaranthine.”

The only thought that crystalized in the blankness of Theron’s dismayed disbelief was the plaintive:

“But I don’t _want_ to be nice to the Empress of _Orlais._ ”

“You are going to be,” Anora told him. “And to everyone else who attends.”

* * *

The Arl had not improved. One did _not_ decide to leave a residence and then decide to do so within days, _especially_ not with a Queen and her fiancé and the Left Hand along!

It was atrocious and Damien had been trying to put the household to sorts for the past two days. He had split his time between the Palace - asking after Queen Anora’s preferences and querying about the baggage that would follow her a few days behind to the Vigil - and at the estate with Shianni, arranging for the continued pay of the core estate staff and finding new and reputable jobs for those who were going to be unneeded now that the household was leaving. He hadn’t been assigned to do this, naturally, because the Arl was a _terrible employer,_ but things needed doing and managing and Andraste’s grace and favor he was going to _be of use!_

It also meant that he hadn’t had time to hold lessons. He was trying not to think about that. He could teach the children when they returned to Vigil’s Keep, of course. But it wouldn’t be the same. Without Orana.

He’d noted last week, with glum unsurprise, that he’d begun thinking _‘Orana’_ but saying _‘Mistress Archieros’_.

Soon, there would be no more lessons, no more market trips, no more visiting the halla. Orana would go to Lothering with Bann Amell, or to Highever with Lady Bethany. He was hoping she would consent to trading correspondence with him, but there was still only so much a letter could do. And she wouldn’t be close enough to easily visit.

But today, this afternoon, their final before leaving for Vigil’s Keep, they could have one more trip.

Orana met him at the stables, neatly dressed in her blouse and customary shawl, the hem of her skirt high enough to stay out of any mud they might encounter, with wooden pattens as extra protection for her house shoes. They made her just about his height.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Archieros,” he greeted her, and her answering smile was devastating.

“Good afternoon, Messere Daganini.”

He escorted her into the stables, and she held out a posy of roadside flowers for Jasmine to snack on while Damien found the halla’s hackamore and slipped it on.

From the other stall, Eirlin sighed heavily.

“Shush, you,” Damien told him. “You will be on the road for the next three days carrying Nehna Revasina. This is Jasmine’s day out.”

They exited the estate with Jasmine’s reins in Damien’s left hand and Orana escorted on his right arm, as was only proper for a woman of her station. Damien tried not to feel like they were being stared at, but unfortunately, that was the reaction halla received when in the presence of those who were unaccustomed to the circumstance.

It wasn’t so bad in the Palace District, but once they had exited into the square behind the city gates and begun proceeding towards the West Market, he couldn’t ignore it. The only thing to do was to keep his composure and act every bit the high-class servant he was.

So everyone stared, but no one interfered. The guards stationed at the Alienage gates actually stepped back from him, slightly cowed by his aura of status and competence.

Damien had never actually been in an Alienage before. He had heard things, of course, because people talked. Alienages were squalid, they said. Dirty, infested with rats. Dangerous and unwelcoming. Full of immorality. No place for someone respectable.

Some of it he knew as simple prejudice, but some of it also sounded like the way nobility and the richer spoke of poor humans, just with even less sympathy. The Denerim Alienage, however, had a strange look to it. The buildings themselves were a mix of old and new, the old battered by age and the new smaller, and more hastily built, indicating some large disaster, likely the Blight. Regardless of age, the buildings were cramped, built out and up asymmetrically and at off angles to use up as much available space as possible.

But the streets seemed much the same as those in any other lower-class neighborhood, though perhaps in some ways cleaner, because of the legal restrictions on legal possessions of elves. Poor humans might be able to keep a pig or some goats or chickens in an odd available corner, in cities; but elves had to make do with pigeon cotes.

As they drew closer to the center of the Alienage and the house Orana had said the Dalish supposedly in charge of Jasmine was staying, buildings started to show signs of recent, quality repair work or renovations. He knew from the talk of other servants that this was the result of the Arl’s standards of pay and the benefits of having a Dalish Crafter move in.

Unsurprisingly, they found the Dalish not at the house where he rented space, but up on someone else’s roof, evaluating supports on the overhanging buildings and supervising a re-shingling over a leaky spot.

 _“Irothal Blartera Nu’nin!”_ Damien yelled up at the man. “You have _things_ to _answer_ for!”

Now he had the attention of everyone in the central square and the buildings nearby.

“And you are?” the Dalish asked him.

“Damien Daganiri, in the employ of the Arl of Amaranthine; and _you_ have been derelict in your duty for the care of this halla! She has been stabled at the Estate for over a month, and never _once_ in that time have I known you to come visit her! The instructions left to the hostlers, if any _were,_ were simply disgraceful! She was longing for company and attention! She was not exercised! She was not groomed and her hooves were not checked and cleaned! Her stall was mucked and she was fed, though I cannot tell if the feed was adequate or not, and _I_ have been the one tending to the rest while _you_ have not _bothered_ to take any time out of your day to see to the welfare of your partner and cousin-kin! You dishonor your clan! You dishonor Ghilan’nain! You shame your own name and as the Arl will be departing for his lands in the morning and taking with him the other Dalish in this city, including the only other halla, I have come to address this _heinous neglect_ before she is left alone in those stables and withers away from inattention as I will not be able to make a daily visit to ensure her comfort and wellbeing!”

Irothal had the gall to _laugh_ at him! He sat on the roof and _laughed_ and if Damien had been a fighting man he would have gone up there and- and done _something_ about the laughing and whatever-it-was he was saying in El’vhen.

Jasmine bleated and nuzzled into his hair. It was mortifying.

“She likes you!” Irothal called. “I didn’t come up because Shianni said she’d rip into anyone who mistreated her, so when she didn’t say anything I knew she was in good hands! But I’m staying here and you’re going somewhere friendlier to us and our cousins- let her go with you, _halla’lin,_ and keep her in your good care!”

He went back to his work, and Damien stood there, dumbfounded.

“You have a halla!” Orana congratulated him.

“I-” Damien said, still thrown. “ _Well._ I suppose this is a satisfactory outcome. I should take her back to the stables to have her prepared for tomorrow.”

They walked back the way they’d left, and Damien tried to screw up his courage. He’d expected to have much more time to do this, and he wasn’t _ready._

They arrived at the stables all too soon. Damien handed Jasmine off with stern instructions, and only found courage enough to stop Orana in the garden, almost at the servants’ entrance.

“In light of our changing circumstances, namely our pending separation in the courses of our duties, I have procured something for you. A gift.”

He pulled the small book out of the pocket in his coat he’d been hiding it in, presenting it to Orana.

“Svarevna Isaer’s _Fey-Dreams of a Zhar._ I had been going to purchase Andreste Faedries’ _Notes from the West_ but when I saw Isaer for offer I knew I must. _Fey-Dreams_ is partially poetry and partially prose, quite a bold move, and extolls the beauty of living in and near the Brecilian Forest. Isaer was a rebel against the Orlesians, you see, and spent her time between raids dwelling on the scenery and describing waking dreams of the return of a true hero-ruler. It is banned in Orlais, for they found the rhetoric to be attacking them, but- if you know how to look. You can tell it is actually about sovereignty for elves.”

“Sovereignty?” Orana asked, eyes wide.

“Svarevna Isaer is an elf. More reason to ban her in Orlais. Marcher printers only produced it for the novelty value. Few of these were ever circulated. It is another case of prejudice overriding all else- Isaer has a lyrical grasp on phrase and a subtlety that I find lacking in many modern writings. I believe it would have a deserved place in the canon of literature, if only people could be better.”

“If it was banned,” Orana said, taking the book and carefully cradling it in her hands. “And so rare, how do you know so much about it?”

“There were two copies for sale,” Damien admitted. He’d been paid _so well,_ and he’d had the coin for it- one simply could _not_ pass up such a find of rare books. “I purchased both. I have read through mine quickly enough to know the contents, but plan on a thorough re-reading shortly. I had hoped we could discuss it together.”

This was the fraught part of the conversation. If she didn’t- if it was too-

“I’d love to, Damien,” she said shyly, and his heart fluttered.

But before he could reply, he was _impolitely interrupted._

“Ah!” his half-brother exclaimed happily from his position on the threshold of the servants’ entrance. “ _There_ you are! And both of you together, I am lucky today! Come, I have things to discuss with both of you.”

This was unexpected and unwelcome and _unappreciated._

Messere Revasina took them up to the Arl’s study and closed the door. Foreboding settled in Damien’s chest.

“So, brother,” Messere Revasina said. “I have noticed you are not particularly employed in the position you currently hold, no?”

The foreboding turned into an icy wash through his body. It had been noticed, what he’d been dreading, they’d _finally realized_ that he was being payed far in excess of his duties.

“I am, Messere, but I strive to be of use and exceed expectations for my performance and diligence in-”

“Yes, I know,” Messere Revasina said, waving him off. “Sadly it seems as though Theron is much more content to bolster his reputation and dignity through the strength of his sword-arm and his boundless righteousness rather than through the accruements of his household. Unorthodox, but he is ever such; and the Fereldans, in their great and boundless wisdom and tradition, seem approving of the plan. It pains me greatly to admit that he was right- he does not _need_ a manservant.”

He was _getting fired._

“However!” he continued blithely. “You have proven your talents very well in other places! I propose to switch your employment from the manservant of the Arl to the official tutor of the children, if that is agreeable? I fear otherwise there will be an even greater conflict when Theron inevitably rejects any of the qualified Sisters that may be found for the position.”

“This is agreeable,” Damien put in quickly. “What should I expect as adjustment-”

“Your contract was made by Lady Stockard. She is a wonderful woman but she was working with incomplete facts. You will receive a stipend for books and paper and other educational materials. You will receive lodging and meals with the family and a purse, because this is only very _loosely_ employment. You are family! You are teaching your niece and nephews in the honorable tradition of nobility taking in less fortunate branches of the family.”

There was a lot to say to that. The first thing Damien addressed was: “I am not nobility!”

“Ah, that would be _before_ Ferelden,” his brother said. “But now you have found me and I am to be married to the Arl of Amaranthine, who has many titles besides, which is really quite lucky for you.”

He winked. Damien felt as though he should be offended.

“In any case it is hardly _proper_ to truly employ such close family, no? _Haminisa,_ you and _Mamae_ and _Amma_ and any spouse or children you have, you are all always welcome in our household, and we will put you up as best as we can.”

It was nice not be fired, but somehow getting _promoted_ was worse.

But he would be able to teach. And he wouldn’t have to fight to personally attend to the Arl any longer. His life would be less stressful.

“This leaves us with a vacancy in the household, however,” Messere Revasina continued, addressing Orana now. “There is still a need for tasks such as caring for the more delicate parts of the wardrobes and seeing to the maintenance of the rooms and perhaps delivering meals and materials as requested, and suchlike. Also for assistance in general management, as I have been doing much of it myself though a proper noble household requires more than this. Essentially what I am asking you is to join in a very small and benevolent conspiracy dedicated to making Theron a proper Arl in trappings at least, through trickery and deviousness if necessary. I am thinking _‘Chamberlain of the Household of the Arl’_? He is in essence a duke and I mean to make that title worthy of any duchy.”

“The proper comparative title for an Arl is Comte or Count,” Damien corrected.

“Says the _Orlesians,_ ” Messere Revasina retorted. “And _they_ and the Nevarrans who follow some of their system award duchies as consolation prizes for those unlucky enough to be of royal blood and not inherit a throne. The title is next to meaningless in describing power or wealth in Nevarra, there are so many Dukes and Duchesses, and in Orlais the title is a matter of the Game. In either case it simply makes those holding it feel better. These duchies are _cities!_ The Arls and Teyrns of Ferelden reign over large swathes of the _country._ In terms of power and relative wealth I would better place Arls and Teyrns as Dukes, the Banns as Counts, and perhaps the Hereditary Lords as Barons. It could behoove Ferelden, politically and economically, to act in such a way. There is no need to change what is fundamentally Fereldan about it all, of course- I am getting beyond myself. I have already spoken with Bann Amell, Orana, and she is willing to let you go if you wish to take this position.”

“I- I would be a fool not to, Messere,” Orana said.

“Wonderful! Would you be willing to leave the settlement of the details of your board and benefits until we reach the Vigil? I am certain Lady Stockard will have opinions on the matter.”

Orana nodded. To Damien, she seemed somewhat dumbfounded. He could sympathize – this was _not_ what he’d been expecting. He sincerely hoped that _‘more surprises’_ wasn’t on that list of things that still needed doing. His plans needed rethinking.

“We are hosting a state occasion for the celebration of the Queen and Lord Desroschers’ engagement at some point in Justinian, the date is being finalized, so that will be your first large project. It will be the Queen, foreign dignitaries, I suspect a reasonable portion of the nobility, Lord Desroschers’ family of course; and the Empress has been invited.”

No, of course not. You could not plan for anything in the Arl’s household.

* * *

It had been a large group that rode out from Denerim. The original group of Theron’s household, the Queen, a small selection of her household with her new fiancé, and Leliana had added Teyrn Cousland, Bethany Amell, Bann Amell, and Arl Alfstanna. It was a grand train that was progressing along the Pilgrims’ Path, and Morrigan was less than pleased. They attracted _attention,_ and even with the additions to the group having peeled off this afternoon to continue along the North Road towards Highever, a group of Wardens, armed elves, the Left Hand of the Divine, and the _Queen_ was more than enough to provoke the staff of this inn into running about like spooked rabbits!

Among those staring were Templars, stationed to protect the religious travelers along the way to Amaranthine. Morrigan adjusted her grip on Kieran, in the saddle in front of her, and resolutely ignored them until Theron came over to see why she was still atop her horse. She handed down Kieran as if she had merely been waiting for him to come attend to his son.

Zevran, annoying man, slid in next to her after she’d dismounted, flanking her against Theron with Kieran. He had no business trying to guard _her._

It did not make her feel better. It did _not._ It was entirely the result of taking her staff in hand.

T he rooms and food at this inn were as nice as the others they’d stopped at.  _This_ part of the trip was entirely acceptable, and certainly better than simply traveling back with the Wardens would have been. They likely would have  _camped,_ to keep Theron and Alistair from having to endure their own reputations. Preposterous, when you could have mattresses and rugs and fireplaces.

This night, her room was shared with Zevran’s children. They were suitably intimidated when, after dinner, she fixed them with a look and commanded them to watch Kieran and keep him out of all danger. They had experienced danger enough themselves to be able to watch for it, and she punctuated the command with an imperious sweep out of their room.

Zevran and Theron were lodged down the hall. She entered without knocking to keep up her confidence. Inside, Zevran had taken a chair to pull his boots and stockings off, while Theron had already finished disarming and stripping down to braies and undertunic in preparation for bed.

“You are certain of this?” she demanded of Zevran.

“I would not kid about such a matter.”

Morrigan squared her shoulders, grabbed Theron’s loosened hair, and yanked him into a kiss.

It wasn’t a very good kiss. They’d had much better. Theron was too shocked to reciprocate, and Morrigan couldn’t yield without losing her composure and she  _refused_ to be- to act like some-

Theron put his hands on her hips, holding her in place, and took a step back, and it didn’t matter so much. Her heart stuttered and Morrigan tightened her grip on his hair, knowing better than to try to pull him back but unwilling to let him go.

“Am I being ambushed?” he asked the room.

“It appears so,” she heard Zevran say, amused, from his seat in the chair. “You may wish to use your words, my dear Morrigan.”

“I do not require your  _help,_ Zevran Revasina!”

“Mmm.”

“Morrigan?”

“You are the father of my son,” she answered Theron.

“That doesn’t make you  _obligated._ I don’t expect anything from you- I mean, if you left, it would hurt, and it would hurt even more if you took Kieran, but I’m not going to-”

“This would be an opportune moment to explain, otherwise he will tie himself further into knots to convey that he has no intentions of controlling you, even if it means not expressing what he wants for fear of influencing your decisions.”

“ _Shut up,_ Zevran!”

“You’re friends, you should be nice to each other,” Theron told them both.

“I am being nice, I am providing needed advice.”

“It is entirely  _un_ needed-”

“I feel like I’m being set up,” Theron said, and Morrigan almost shoved him away and stormed out because if  _that_ was what he thought of her-!

She jumped at a light touch on her back.

“He is not rejecting you,” Zevran said quietly to her. “He is simply confused. I said I would not tell him for you- but you have come this far, my dear brave Morrigan, and I am willing to take the rest.”

 _‘Brave’,_ where did he get away with  _complimenting_ her like that, it wasn’t  _him_ she was- she was here for!

But she let Zevran explain anyway, and tuned it out, focusing on the feel of Theron’s hair in her hands and his on her hips.

And then the room tilted and they hit the mattress together, Theron’s left arm snugly pinned under her waist to the bed where he had lifted her, his other hand gently removing hers from his hair. Morrigan was faced with his devastating, brilliantly warm smile.

“ _Sav’asha_ ,” he said in a tone so fond and joyful that, for a moment, she was back at the end of the Blight and he’d just taken her to bed and called her that and she was parsing the El’vhen for the first time-  _sweet, lovely, delightful, endearing, darling._

He shifted her closer and took the pins out of her hair.

“No, do not put them on the bed,” Zevran told him, close now, presumably grabbing them to place them somewhere safer. “They will get lost and then our dear Morrigan will have to go about with her hair down. A sight it would be, I am sure, but-”

“Cease your blathering,” she told him, focused on Theron. He’d pulled them not-quite flush together, and intertwined their legs. His fingers were running through her loosened hair. It was intoxicating. He was so close. Far closer than she almost ever let people come, but it was Theron  _cuddling_ her. “Leave us be.”

“Oh, most certainly,” he agreed, but the mattress sagged with his weight as he sat down next to them. The blankets tugged and bunched as he got them over his bare feet. “Do continue. But the two of you have claimed the most comfortable spot in the room and I am  _far_ too much a hedonist to let you have it all to yourself when you only take up half the bed and I have a book to read.”

Morrigan meant to tell him off, especially when Theron stopped playing with her hair to reach further and twine his fingers with Zevran’s; but then Theron kissed her back, and all was well enough.


	14. Chapter 14

Morrigan came out of Theron’s room in the morning, and he kissed her as she left, pulling her close. She reached up to tangle her hands in Theron’s hair to extend the moment and it was the worst day of Alistair’s life.

He rode in the middle of the column that day, the last stretch to Vigil’s Keep. Zevran was at the front, talking with Anora and Rosaire and Leliana; Theron just behind them with Kieran in the saddle in front of him and Morrigan riding beside.

Every time she laughed it hurt worse than the Joining.

“Captain?” Andreas asked, in Ander. “Something wrong?”

“No!” Alistair said, tearing his eyes from Theron and Morrigan and sitting up straighter. He hadn’t realized he’d started slouching. “Nope, nothing wrong here.”

“You don’t _look_ all right,” Lockhard said.

“I didn’t sleep well? I felt kind of sick.”

“Wardens don’t _get_ sick, the Taint doesn’t let us.”

“There are sicknesses not in the body,” Andreas countered. “We have all been wondering, Captain - have you had a fight with the Commander?”

 _“Everyone,”_ Lockhard agreed. “No one heard anything, but we can all see that you’ve been avoiding him.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Alistair muttered.

“You are,” Andreas said. “You’re back here. You have been sticking to him like a barnacle since Kirkwall but now we have barely seen you with him.”

“I’ve been around him a lot for a long time, maybe I’m taking a break.”

Andreas gave him a look.

“Like _bullshit_ you are,” Anders jumped in, falling back to their position. Stupid, _of course_ Anders spoke Ander! “You go running after him every chance you get and I’ve _heard_ about the moods you get into up at Soldiers’ Peak when you haven’t seen him in a while. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s _wrong._ ”

“Mm-hm,” Andreas said, lips pursed as he looked at Theron, Morrigan, and Zevran ahead of them.

Lockhard and Anders followed his look.

“Are you... feeling left out?” Anders asked delicately. “That happened to me sometimes. In Kirkwall. After Bethany went to the Circle and Hawke fell in with Merrill.”

“Kieran calls you _‘Uncle’_. I’m _‘Uncle’_ to a lot of my sisters’ kids, and they’re great,” Lockhard said. “Family doesn’t stop being family just because there’s more of it.”

“It’s not _that._ ”

Lockhard reached out and clapped him on the back.

“And you won’t lose them any other way,” he continued, serious with conviction. “Lady Morrigan’s survived Templars all this time. Crows and Antiva and a Blight didn’t kill Lord Revasina. An _Archdemon_ didn’t kill the Commander, and it _should have._ ”

For a moment, Alistair was taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to-

“What do you _mean,_ it _‘should have’_?” Anders asked.

Alistair remembered Lockhard and the Voshai had been in Weisshaupt already when he’d made his official report. The one that said Riordan had killed the Archdemon.

“An Archdemon can only be killed by a Warden,” Lockhard told Anders. “And it kills the Warden who strikes the killing blow. He should have gone like Garahel, but he’s _still here._ ”

 _“Holy shit,”_ Anders whispered, and looked back at Theron with wide-eyed awe.

Lockhard smiled slightly at Alistair, who only caught the expression out of the corner of his eye.

“I understand why you lied to them,” he said, quiet enough that it didn’t catch Anders’ attention. “The First Warden and them would turn him inside out to find out why he isn’t dead, and the Commander… wouldn’t take it well.”

“Yeah, well, we were both tired of the attention by then-”

A few memories came to the front of his mind, as they did only when _something bad_ was happening. Avernus, up in the tower in Soldiers’ Peak. Magister Darkspawn prisons.

“Lockhard,” Alistair said, in a tone that made Anders look away from Theron and tense in learned instinct. “Tell me you didn’t mean they’d _literally ‘turn him inside out’_ to find out why the Archdemon didn’t kill him.”

Lockhard looked away, straight ahead of them.

“He’s an elf. Dalish. He’d never swear to the Maker. Blocked an Annulment of a Circle taken over by blood mages. The Commander accepts lots of people no one else wants into the Wardens. The rest of the Order does too. But not the same way. You’re meant to do everything and anything you can to stop the darkspawn and the Taint. _‘In war, victory’_. In the Anderfels, we know we are _always_ at war. If an Archdemon didn’t kill him, can the Taint? Will he have a Calling?”

Anders was swearing in a couple different languages and dialects under his breath.

“In the Anderfels, it is illegal not to be Andrastean,” Andreas said. “It doesn’t officially hold to the Wardens. But it still is… less trouble. To pretend, even in Weisshaupt.”

“ _Especially_ in Weisshaupt,” Lockhard muttered, and Alistair could see it all too clearly. He’d seen the work of enough blood mages, and enough people who just didn’t _care_ what happened in the pursuit of a goal.

“But- I mean-” Anders was trying to say. “If they’re _that_ Andrastean-”

“Do you trust the Chantry?” Andreas asked. “They say _‘no blood magic’_ and then control you with it. Expediency over integrity. Perhaps nothing but uproar and accusations of lying would have been the response, if the truth had been told.”

“Fuck the Chantry, fuck the Grey Wardens,” Anders spat.

Alistair felt like there was a necessary thing to point out there, but Anders saw it on his face before he spoke.

“Yeah, I _know,_ ” he said. “But we’re the _Commander’s_ Wardens. Weisshaupt and the others have done shit-all for _us._ If the Grey Wardens are like Caron, or the ones in the Free Marches who just let Kirkwall _rot,_ or like in Antiva where they’d sell people out for their own- whatever the fuck that was about? Then _I’m_ not a Grey Warden. I’m a Warden of Ferelden, and I take my orders from the _Hero_ of Ferelden. Not some asshole up in the Anderfels. How do you _become_ First Warden, anyway?”

That was an excellent question.

“But an Andrastean human would have been met better,” Lockhard continued, back on the point. “An Andrastean human who found the Ashes and slew an Archdemon in the city of her birth, who would have prayed to her and the Maker. Maybe _he’d_ have a miracle.”

“He has,” Andreas said. “He will. Mhequi can see it on him when she’s had enough lyrium. His soul sings and carries the smell of dragon fire, and his shadow follows him deep and dark as a crypt. He’s god-touched.”

Lockhard had that expression that said, for all that he was more Voshai than anything else and adhered to the culture and customs instead of the Ander ones he’d been born into, something completely outrageous and unbelievable had just been said. It was the same one he’d had in Kirkwall when the Voshai had insisted that lyrium was alive.

Andreas gave him a deeply unimpressed one back.

“He took the Taint from Urthemiel,” he said. “God-touched. Once touched, always touched. Once seen, always seen. Known by one, known by all. Power-”

Alistair was used to Voshai encountering a wholly untranslatable word for a concept they were trying to express, and waited patiently.

“Behind him,” Andreas said, scowling at the verbal hedging he needed to do. “With him. Following. Chasing. Stalking. Circling. Protecting. _Vast._ Empowering, engulfing, inescapable, embracing, permeating, infusing, constant, awful, terrible, dangerous, doom, _focus_ -”

“Is this your theory about why the Commander always ends up in unbelievable, dangerous situations?” Anders asked. “Because the Archdemon _cursed_ him or something?”

Andreas sighed angrily and gave them all a frustrated look for their lack of comprehension.

“Anyway,” Lockhard said after a moment. “Better that he’s here and not at Weisshaupt. Whatever might or mightn’t’ve happened.”

 “He’s never going up there,” Alistair swore. If nothing else, Theron would never be able to pretend faith in the Maker. Respect for Andraste, sure. But as a war leader and friend of the People, not Prophet and Bride of the Maker. It would get him in trouble, and Weisshaupt was on the other side of the _world._

“ _Ahhhh,”_ Andreas said. “You love him.”

_“Excuse you?”_

“The Constable does the same with Anders, Captain,” Andreas said. “Forlorn distance, protective devotion. In love, speaking with actions and not the words fear or despair holds tight.”

“Nate’s _what_ now!” Anders yelped loudly enough to get Nathaniel’s attention.

“Anders-”

“It’s _fine!_ ” Anders said, words strained as he flapped a hand to get Nathaniel to turn around in his saddle again and ignore them. He was starting to blush.

Nathaniel spent a moment before he followed Anders’s wish, giving him a look of pained concern and Andraste’s pyre if Alistair hadn’t seen Theron with that same expression about Zevran.

“Maker’s breath.”

Lockhard whistled his exhale through his teeth.

“Might want to talk to him about that.”

“I feel like this is a stupid question,” Alistair said. “But do _you_ like him, Anders?”

Anders was blushing furiously and looked like he was about to go defensive, which was answer enough.

“If _you_ like the Commander so much, go talk to _him!_ ”

“Nathaniel isn’t the one getting married,” Lockhard reminded him quietly, and Anders deflated some and shifted uncomfortably, passing the feeling on to his horse.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. That’s a really shit place to be, Alistair. I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.”

* * *

A fortress like Vigil’s Keep could not be put to siege by one Grand Cleric and a dozen Templars, especially not with a cadre of mages, Wardens, assorted soldiers, and other, defected Templars residing within the Vigil, so Delilah preceded with things as normally as possible.

Which was not very much, because Delilah was also aware that one Grand Cleric and dozen Templars were effectively keeping them trapped within the Vigil because the political consequences for pushing further could be disastrous, so the best way to avoid anything was to avoid interacting, which meant that she and the Wardens were stuck within the Vigil.

She also had a Crow assassin trailing after her, and _she_ was followed by whatever Warden was on assassin-watching duty. That also made acting normal somewhat difficult; though she _had_ thoughtlessly registered _‘pointed ears, quiet, following me’_ and handed Mahendra Arainai a folder of papers some days ago and only realized what she’d done after Mahendra had handed them back when she needed them, so it worked out. The Crow slept in the great hall with the Wardens who’d been camped in the Arlswood at night and acted as her personal assistant during the day, and it kept her out of trouble.

It also lent to the air of normalcy she was cultivating. A strange Crow? Just as much a part of the life of the Vigil as Messere Revasina was. A surfeit of Wardens? Organized under Warden Kondrat into running drills and rotations to keep them out of the way in the main areas and decrease the sense of overcrowding. A Freewoman losing her temper with the Grand Cleric at the market over her rhetoric about the Wardens and mages? Quickly bustled up into the cells inside the Vigil, under “arrest”. The Champion of Kirkwall and the Arl-Commander’s mage sister hopping the wall in the night to deliver the news that the Arl-Commander was returning home with all speed, accompanied by the Queen and the Left Hand of the Divine, and in three months’ time to host the state occasion celebrating the Queen’s engagement?

Welcome but terrifying news, because the Vigil _was not prepared_ for such a visit. This was a _fortress,_ and while they did keep a suite of rooms for visiting royalty they were a relic of the time before the Occupation, when the Arls of Amaranthine _lived_ in the Vigil, rather than “keeping rooms” as her father and the family had for a couple months of the year, but _living_ in the now-destroyed house in Amaranthine or the Estate in Denerim. What few true guest rooms there _were_ in the Vigil were occupied by the Senior Wardens and had been for at least a month!

She had two days to fix this. Possibly three. But Delilah Stockard née Howe was a _lady,_ and in charge of this fortress and the arling itself while their lord was absent, and so she _would_ make it work.

The Wardens were shuffled yet again, the younger in years or experience Wardens booted out to camp in the training grounds. It was warm enough to be feasible now, and any Fereldan worth the name could live with cold spring nights. A whole day had to be devoted to moving the older Wardens, Delilah coming back to it again and again in between other things that needed seeing to. All the rooms had to be cleaned, and then surveyed, and then Delilah had to consider the status of the arriving guests and estimate the ensuing retinues, and _then_ rooms could be set aside for their impending guests and the remaining Wardens she left to handle dividing up the other rooms amongst themselves. The vacated rooms were made a presentable as they could be, given the short notice and unfortunate circumstances, and then at least the _space_ problem was solved.

There was food to consider. The Wardens were still eating plenty, and it wasn’t making too terrible a dent in the budget, but the question was what would they serve the Queen, because you _had_ to have a feast to fete royalty when they visited, and who could they even invite? There was only one Bann in Amaranthine and _he_ was still in Denerim with his daughters, last Delilah knew. What about notables from Amaranthine City? Normally the first on the list would be the Grand Cleric but she _clearly_ not invited; who else did they have? Without a good estimate of guest numbers she couldn’t really begin to plan for courses, or quantity, and there was no guaranteeing quality of course, this was early spring and the trade ships hadn’t started docking in large quantities, and the Arl-Commander didn’t keep a Huntmaster or a hunting pack or coursing servants or _anything,_ so they’d been using the Wardens to hunt, and the Wardens were stuck _here_ until the Arl-Commander arrived with the Queen so _what_ was she supposed to _do-_

She still didn’t have an answer the night when a servant woke her at a truly indecent hour to fetch her to her office, where a paid courier brought her the news from the Crossroads that the Arl-Commander and the Queen had taken lodging at an inn there for the night. They could be expected at the Keep by noon the next day, likely earlier.

Delilah didn’t go back to bed. She stayed awake and attended to paperwork until the Vigil began to stir properly into wakefulness, and summoned Mahendra to her over breakfast.

“Messere Revasina climbed the Vigil Tower to the roof,” she informed the Crow. “Can you do the same?”

It was the only place in Vigil’s Keep high enough to see to the river. Anyone stationed atop the now-under-repair tower would be able to see, if they were so attentive, when the Arl-Commander arrived at Arlstoll at the river crossing.

Delilah needed to know the when. They had been trapped in their own fortress, bent to the whim and whiles of an _Orlesian_ and that could not be stood. Not with the Queen coming. Not with the Arl, not with the Hero of Ferelden, not with the Warden-Commander.

Not here in Amaranthine, where her grandfather Arl Byron Howe had sheltered King Maric’s rebel army in the Wending Wood, where the Hero of River Dane had formed and trained the Night Elves, not in the Arling of Amaranthine that had been the capital of the Orlesian Occupation and lost a good Arl too young to the Liberation of Gwaren. 

There was a statement to be made and by the good name of her family and the honor of the Howes, the honor of their Alamarri lineage, of the Arls stretching back into time immemorial when the Alamarri had lain the first stones of the Vigil, of her grandfather the Rebel Bear and her brother the Warden-Constable and herself the Seneschal of the Arling, _Delilah was going to make that statement._

When Mahendra came down from the Vigil in the midmorning to inform her that the Arl-Commander and his company had crossed the Hafter, Delilah was ready.

* * *

They stopped just outside of Arlstoll, by the bridge, to water the horses at the river before the final uphill mile to the Vigil. It was also a chance to reorganize into a proper column- the Commander, the Queen, and the Left Hand at the front to meet the Grand Cleric; Wardens and other fighters behind; then the servants and baggage trailing behind.

Anders took the opportunity of the rearrangement to grab Nathaniel and drag him off a ways down the riverbank, away from everyone else.

“Andreas said you’re _in love with me,_ ” he said, and Nathaniel went completely white and looked like he was going to pass out.

“Woah, woah! Hey! Okay, let’s sit you down-”

Nathaniel didn’t seem all that much better sitting on the graveled river bank, but it eased Anders’s worries about him falling over.

“All right,” Anders said, when Nathaniel’s breathing didn’t settle. He shifted on the gravel to kneel behind his friend, hands on his shoulders and knees digging into the rocks as he pressed down on Nathaniel as much as he dared to, trying to ground him. “C’mon. We’re good, _honestly,_ who _wouldn’t_ want a piece of me? Everybody _else_ does. You wouldn’t even be the weirdest one. You have _no idea_ the sort of people who came through Darktown. Lowtown, too, or seriously, _just_ the docks-”

Nathaniel whined.

“Hey, you good?” Anders asked, waving one of his hands in front of Nathaniel’s face. He’d been expecting an impatient bat away, but Nathaniel just slumped under Anders’s one remaining hand to hide his face in his knees.

That was enough to overbalance Anders, and he took Nathaniel down with him. Nathaniel, stupid rogue, fell sideways and caught himself in a perfect roll Anders could hear as he face-planted directly into the gravel.

He felt not as bad about that when he got his arms under him and found out that Nathaniel’s roll had put him half in the river.

“You know,” he said, faking a casualness he didn’t feel. “I just realized that _maybe_ the reason you freaked out is because _you’ve_ got a problem with liking me like that? And _I’m_ thinking- one, fuck you, I thought we were better friends than that; and two, I can push you in that blighted river, so think about what you’re going to say.”

Nathaniel sat there in the shallows of the Hafter River and stared blankly at him.

“I don’t know _how,_ ” he said, incredibly distressed.

“How to what?” Anders asked. “Be polite? Stay out of rivers?”

“Do,” he said, stopped. And continued sitting in the river like an idiot.

Anders sighed, got up, and held a hand out to Nathaniel to help him out of the water. Nathaniel looked at in continued distress.

Anders waggled his fingers.

“You have to _ride_ in those pants, you know,” he reminded his friend. “A whole mile. Can you face down the Grand Cleric with wet pants?”

“I can’t face down the Grand Cleric at all,” he muttered, and finally took Anders’s hand.

“Now, _that’s_ a lie,” Anders retorted, pulling to give him leverage. “You made me a Captain to spite her.”

“No, that was pure nerv-”

Anders kept pulling past the point when Nathaniel had gotten to his feet and yanked him into a kiss.

It was okay. Not the best kiss, but Nathaniel hadn’t prepared for it.

“Idon’tknowhowtodothis,” Nathaniel burst out when Anders broke for air.

“What, kissing? That’s fixable.”

Nathaniel was turning red and looked very strained.

“I don’t know how to-”

He made a bunch of frantic hand motions around them. Anders got the idea.

“I had to kill the only other person I could really say I had a _‘relationship’_ with,” Anders told him. “The Chantry sent him to _Kirkwall_ and he was Tranquil by the time I found him. When Justice came out, he could- he asked me to kill him. He didn’t want to live that way. You can’t be worse than that, Nate.”

Nathaniel stood there for a moment, face as blank as it ever got- which meant the strain lines were still there, but his mouth and eyebrows were perfectly straight.

Anders smacked him on the hip. Nathaniel startled, blushed even _worse_ , and trotted off at a rapid pace back to the horses.

 Anders healed the small scrapes the gravel had given him, dusted off his uniform, and glared at the air.

“Fuck you, Justice.”

He could _swear_ he could hear Justice chuckling at the back of his mind as he walked back to the group and took his place in the column. Nathaniel was red the whole way up to the edge of the newly-incorporated town outside the Vigil, shooting little nervous glances at him with regularity.

Andraste’s _tits,_ he was going to have to get the man tipsy and stuffed full of the calming tea Leontius used before they could have a real conversation, wasn’t he?

* * *

The town was unsettled as they rode in. The atmosphere was uneasy, overall, in a way that automatically sharpened his attention because this was the unease of people beholden to Templars. Their arrival might have been the best thing this whole month, the way it stirred up relief and excitement- the first from the sight of the Commander and the Wardens, the second from recognition of the Queen. People were bowing and curtseying and Nathaniel wished that that was reassuring. It wasn’t. The Grand Cleric – _this wasn’t his concern any longer._

They came to the first gates of the Keep. The Grand Cleric was waiting for them, her Templars spread out around her.

“Your Arlship, I-” was all Nathaniel could bring himself to attend to of the ensuing tirade out of the Grand Cleric’s mouth. She was speaking in Orlesian, and Orlesian was a language he knew but it wasn’t one he’d ever had reason to live speaking. It was easier to ignore than it would have if she’d been speaking Trade.

A crowd was gathering. People lingered in the road and standing conspicuously in windows or door frames, come to have a look at the show. Nathaniel wished they’d go away and let him settle his nerves, but the exchange between the Grand Cleric and the Commander did not disappoint in entertainment. The Commander sat out the Grand Cleric’s angry spew with the _excellent_ attentive disinterest of the high noble-born – which, _where_ had this come from? He hadn’t thought that the Commander had learned that much at Court – before answering her in El’vhen.

Which was when it made sense. He was trying to humiliate her, wasn’t he. This seemed like a _terrible_ idea, but he still couldn’t help but enjoy the shock and affront on her face at her incomprehension and the Commander’s sharp tone, proving that if _she_ was going to go off in a language the Commander didn’t understand, he could do the same in turn.

Nathaniel was pretty sure that the Commander, because Zevran’s smile was a little _too_ amused.

At least the Grand Cleric didn’t know El’vhen.

The heavy doors of the Vigil swung open just a beat after the Commander had finished, and _thank you thank you Delilah_. She stepped out of the Vigil in an impeccable dress in the colors of the arling – white, gold, and amaranth with brown embroidery – dropped into a form-perfect curtsey.

“Your Arlship, it is my pleasure to welcome you home, and thank you on behalf of all your people for returning so swiftly,” she said, clear enough to be heard by everyone. “And Your Royal Highness, we greet you with joy. Be welcome in His Arlship’s lands and safe in his walls. It is an honor to have you.”

“Thank you, Lady Steward Stockard,” the Queen replied in turn, inclining her head.

It was a smooth setup, and Nathaniel was proud of his sister. It made the Grand Cleric and the Templars look like incompetent louts who either refused to respect royalty and nobility; or were too unobservant to notice who they were speaking to.

The Commander couldn’t even mangle it, because Zevran saved them by pinching his fiancé. Likely the Grand Cleric couldn’t tell, but from behind, it was easy to see.

“It’s my pleasure to be home,” the Commander said. “Lady Steward Stockard, I present to the Arling of Amaranthine Sister Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine; and Lord Rosaire Desroschers, son of the Marquis of Emprise du Lion and chosen of Queen Anora Mac Tir, to be Prince-Consort and husband.”

And did _that_ ever cause a stir. While the crowd exclaimed over the news of a royal fiancé, Anders watched as the Templars snapped to fuller attention and the Grand Cleric’s blood drained from her face as the Left Hand nudged her horse a couple steps closer and _smiled_ at her.

“Grand Cleric Candide,” she said - pointedly _not_ in Orlesian. “I have heard the most _interesting_ news - why do you harass the Wardens when they have done no wrong? This is unbefitting of your position.”

“What is _unbefitting,_ ” the Grand Cleric replied, stiff and probably gritting her teeth, Nathaniel had told him about meeting her at Our Lady Redeemer and oh, it must be _killing_ her to speak Trade! “Is this _man’s_ flagrant violation of the Word of the Maker!”

“Violation how?” was the counter. “Surely you know the Chant of Light as well as I, Grand Cleric Candide, and all that is said on the matter of the use of mages is that magic is to serve, and not rule, over mankind. I can assure you, the Arl-Commander is no mage.”

“He flouts the authority of the _Divine,_ by barring Templars from overseeing the mages who _are_ -!”

The Left Hand could cow others into silence with a simple hard look. He _had_ to learn that.

“ _I_ am the one who can speak for Her Most Holy,” the Left Hand said, cool and quiet, but Nathaniel was pretty sure everyone heard it anyway.

And then the Commander spoke.

“Five years I have lived outside the clans of my people,” he said. “In all those years I have yet to see a Templar do the duties the Chantry says they are sworn to. In Kinloch Hold they barred the doors and refused to face the demons they are supposedly trained to destroy. In Denerim they ignored Tevene mage slavers walking free and unhidden in the Alienage and a den of blood mages underneath the city. Across the entire country, we have found Templars who merely stand at Chantries and do nothing while people are beset by danger and trouble. In Redcliffe the knights of the arling had to fight the undead! Where were the Templars then! Only in Lothering have I _ever_ seen a Templar working for the people, and it was merely as a warning to the first victims of the Blight that there could be no more help for them in the town. Wherever we go we fight demons and kill those mages who would threaten others, and never _once_ have we found a Templar doing such a duty.”

“Templars are humble servants of the Maker, righteous and strong in spirit but still merely human!” the Grand Cleric protested. “There are only so many, and the sin of magic needs constant watching! _‘In peace, vigilance’_ ; so you Wardens say! The Templars hold the same! They must be ever-vigilant against temptation and evil; but they cannot be the Maker, who knows all and can stretch His hand wherever he wishes!”

“There are less than fifty of us. At Kinloch Hold alone there are at least two hundred. Where are _they_ when trouble comes?”

“Where they are ordered to be!”

“And we are where we are needed,” the Commander said.

“We cannot be _everywhere!_ ” the Grand Cleric exclaimed. “The Chantry is powerful and the Maker even more so, but there is only ever so much that can be done!”

“Of course there is,” the Commander agreed. “And _we’re_ the ones doing it.”

 _“Templars are not **Wardens!** ”_ the Grand Cleric was beginning to show her rage. “They are not _you, Warden-Commander,_ to stop a Blight and crown a Queen and stop a Blight again! You cannot hold others to _your_ accomplishments!”

“So you admit that my Wardens are better than your Templars,” he said. “Good, we agree. Leave.”

He nudged his horse into continuing towards the gates.

The Grand Cleric screeched something in Orlesian that Nathaniel simply _could not_ believe she had just had the – the _Left Hand_ was here!

The Commander turned on her, his Amaranthine Charger towering above her, tall and heavy with the muscle of a destrier bred to carry warriors in full and heavy plate.

“You do not command here,” he said. “You do not control my decisions, nor my actions. _I_ protect these people, and not you. I will not stand for interference from you or any other of your Sisters or any Templar of the Chantry. This is my arling, these are my people, and these mages are my Wardens. I will take mages from the Circle. I will take mages from the Chasind and the Avvar. I will take mages from my people. I will take mages you would call _‘apostates’_. I will take those that swear by gods other than your Maker and Andraste and I will take those that swear by no gods and I will take those who know and read and follow Dissonant Verses and other so-called _‘heresies’_ \- and _I will tolerate no interference._ The Chantry does not rule in Ferelden. The Chantry does not rule Amaranthine. The Chantry does not rule the Wardens and the Chantry does not rule _me_ and I will _not_ stand by or lay down and let you or any create another _Kirkwall_ by forcing Templars where they do not belong!”

And then they were all able to ride past her and the Templars and into the Keep. He could relax now, he was-

But the Maker was not so kind. He dismounted to greet his sister, and after the hug, she said:

“We arrested a Freeholder to keep her from the Templars, could you bring her up to the Arl? It’s simple, really, he just has to decide to let her go and she doesn’t deserve to be imprisoned any longer even if we have been treating her well.”

Nathaniel agreed and Delilah had been off to settle their distinguished guests, and only _then_ did he  remember that he’d resigned as Warden-Constable and this sort of thing wasn’t his _job_ any longer.

Well. Delilah was already gone. He could take one more job.

It would also keep him away from Anders for a bit longer but that absolutely did not factor into this at all, not one bit.

So Nathaniel went down to the cells, passing a familiar guard - the same who’d kept watch over his own time in this cell, years ago now - and took a quick look at the woman within while she reacted to the new presence. She was blonde, almost brown, with eyes a darker shade of the same color. Simple enough clothes, but good ones. Older than him, a bit weathered from work and the outdoors. Likely a Freeholder with a prosperous farm or trade.

“Your name, Mistress?” he asked as she got to her feet, flapping her skirts out.

“Katrin Eistander,” she answered him, expression set as she eyed him. “Freehold a place in Langcaid.”

Maker take them all. It had been months since he’d looked at the record books, but he remembered looking through them after the initial scare with the Grand Cleric and Anders’s confession about his origins and finding the name _‘Eistander’_ \- the only Ander surname in the area around the Vigil.

She looked a lot like him. It was the nose, and the sharp look in her eyes. She thought she was right and she’d fight him on it, as surely as Anders would.

“Came tae look for a bit for Vardi’s wedding,” Katrin continued. “Heard Templars takin’ piss on t’mages ‘n’ Wardens. Nae call for that. _Nae call._ Wardens’s good paeple ‘n’ kids ne’er did nae bit t’daeserve magic ae it’s curse. S’can’t be nae curse, s’can’t have Templars sayin’ it.”

“So you…?”

“Yelled a bit,” Katrin said. It was oddly defensive and satisfied at the same time. “Hit one ae them was t’loudest ‘bout t’kids. Nae a one daeserves tae _die_. She said thae did ae thae got a demon ‘r sommat. Won’t b’haevin’ thaet.”

Anders would like her.

“Well, the Arl has to make a ruling,” he told her, and paused a moment before adding: “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

It was truthful enough, even if he felt somehow wrong about offering it. Nathaniel waved off the guard who half-heartedly offered bindings for Katrin and led her up to the courtyard. The area was still rather crowded, even with Delilah having led the Queen and her immediate entourage off. He stopped a moment to scan the group, looking for the Commander.

He spotted Anders half a second before, haranguing Leontius over something while Neria and Eadric had an indecently public reunion, and it was another moment of pure clarity, the same as when he’d made Anders Mage-Captain.

Except he wasn’t terrified, and without that, he could emote better. That moment months ago in Amaranthine had been love, he could see now, as had killing Caron. This was no different in origin. He loved Anders, and Anders deserved some family.

“Mistress Eistander?” he asked, because, well, he had to be a little more certain. “Why did you feel so strongly about the Templars?”

He could feel her stiffen behind him.

“ _Murderers_ daeserve tae die,” she said angrily. “Them’s ‘at _hurts_ aethers. Nae _kids_ nae old aenough t’watch t’flocks thaemselves. Nae thaese’d just live paeceful ‘n’ good. _Nae call_ disruptin’ a caemmunity t’draeg off t’sorts a’would-”

 _“Anders!”_ Nathaniel yelled across the courtyard, so he’d be heard over the noise of people. Anders turned away from Leontius to come over- and it got the attention of the Commander as well, who was closer.

“Nathaniel?” he asked as he wandered over, and Nathaniel sighed.

“Commander, this is Mistress Eistander,” he introduced her. “We arrested her for assaulting a Templar.”

“…Why?”

 _“Commander,”_ Nathaniel sighed again. “So the _Templars_ couldn’t arrest her.”

“So she’s not _really_ arrested?”

“No, sir, she’s arrested. Delilah wanted me to have you resolve it.”

The Commander leaned in.

“You’re prompting me to let her go, right?” he whispered.

“If you wish, sir.”

The Commander gave him a meaningful look. Nathaniel gave him a pointed one back. The Commander turned to Katrin.

“Well, you’re not arrested? I’m sure the Templars were being awful.”

“Anders,” Nathaniel said again, now that his friend had gotten into speaking distance. “This is Mistress Eistander.”

He didn’t have to watch closely to note the reaction. Anders _knew_ this name, and knew this woman. Sneaking a glance at Katrin Eistander, though, Nathaniel could tell that she didn’t recognize him.

Anders cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking to him and the Commander and Katrin Eistander in turn.

“Mistress Eistander, this is our Mage-Captain of the Wardens of Ferelden,” he introduced her.

“S’nae sort ae naeme, _‘Anders’_ ,” Katrin informed Anders tartly. “S’nae a naeme, nae t’paeple naether.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Anders told her. Nathaniel had the urge to reach out and take his hand, but hadn’t decided how to act on it, when he continued, awkward and uncertain and… _shy?_ : “Ae-o, Kaetli. Meant t’caeme beck from t’Arlswood nae so late.”

Katrin gaped at him, hands fisted in her skirts where she’d been nervously smoothing them, now that she was in the presence of the Hero of Ferelden.

 _“Audric,”_ she breathed, and Anders bent down so she could throw her arms around his neck, one of his arms clamped around her waist and nearly pulling her off the ground. Her hands raked through his hair and Anders’s clenched hand on the back of her shirt was white-knuckled, and there were tears dripping from his eyelashes.

Was this how romance worked? Anders was crying and he wanted to brush them away? To hold him? _Kissing? **Touching?**_

  _“Nathaniel,”_ the Commander said urgently, gripping his arm tightly enough that it broke him from his thoughts. There was a note in his voice that started to spark anxiety in Nathaniel- that was the Commander _invested_ in something- until he started repeating to himself that he was _not_ responsible for what the Commander did any longer, he was _not._

“Anders’s family lives in Langcaid,” Nathaniel told him in an undertone. “Less than a day’s walk northeast of here. The Templars had him here because he’d intended to see them. They caught him before he got there, and he never tried again, not even a letter.”

He could feel the Commander about to explode from excitement. Oh dear.

* * *

Zevran had not expected his first business after arriving at the Vigil to be breaking up an exuberant group of Wardens exclaiming at Anders how he _‘should have **said** he had family here!’ _over and over again in variation, but it was somewhat touching in its own way, even though he’d had to intervene to send Katrin and Anders - Audric? He’d have to ask later - to the healer’s clinic to keep Katrin from getting _completely_ overwhelmed by the deluge of excited heroes.

He’d expected his first business to be Mahendra and the mystery of the Crows - but he found himself stalling, as it were. He got the group broken up, he had his and Theron’s luggage brought up to their room - _home -_ and started unpacking.

And then realized it was a sort of fidgeting. He would take something out, put it away _exactly,_ go back and get another thing - he was avoiding. Zevran put down what he’d taken out, stood right where he’d had the thought, and focused. On breathing first. Then the room. What was he avoiding?

Mahendra Arainai and the mystery of the Crows, of course. But there was-

Ah. The chest. Of course.

He knelt down next to it. It wasn’t even locked - it was Theron’s extra armor chest, very large and heavy and full of pieces of armor and various weapons he wasn’t totally willing to part with, but didn’t really use. Mostly it was a question of legend or attachment - former Warden-Commander Duncan’s recovered sword and dagger were here, the arcane warrior sword Spellweaver recovered from the werewolf ruins in the Brecilian, the battered ancient viridian El’vhen armor Theron had retired after his five months in the Deep Roads, the Winter Blade of Dane, Dumat’s Claw and Spine from the First Blight, Warden’s Companion, testaments of Wade’s master craftsmanship, and other named or rare items that he dug through until he found what he wanted.

Zevran was still sitting on the floor with the Abbot’s Collar when Theron finally came in.

“This has caused me so much trouble,” he remarked as Theron started shedding parts of his armor.

“Do you think we should be worried?” Theron asked.

“About Mahendra herself? No.”

Just one Crow was nothing to them. They’d proved it.

“About the Crows themselves - perhaps. We still do not know what they want. I should speak to her.”

“With Anora-?”

“Without her first, I think,” Zevran said. “Just in case.”

He didn’t think things would be violent, but this was still on him, somehow. He felt he needed to- to vet this. To encounter her first. It felt like the responsible thing to do.

He used Theron’s office, because his fiancé was pulling Wardens aside in a larger room off the main hall. Maybe he should have found a nicer room, but it was important to be official, but also opulence was a thing of the _congradi_ Crow Masters and he didn’t _want_ to-

In the end it came down to convenience and familiarity. He hadn’t been able to decide whether to bring the Abbot’s Collar or not, finally compromising by tucking it under his leathers. Being in Theron’s office would steady him, he hoped.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he confessed to Theron, just outside his office. “The Crows do not come _to_ you.”

“They come to _you,_ my love,” Theron told him said, and kissed the back of his hand, giving him one of his sweet looks, before they parted.

Zevran debated whether or not to sit behind Theron’s desk while he waited for Mahendra. He still hadn’t decided if it was better to sit or stand or take another option when she came in, and his decision was made for him – standing.

She went to her knees almost immediately, and Zevran’s anxiety spiked. He’d held that pose before, this deference, the downcast eyes and slight huddle, the bowed head and hands curled in lap; he knew the muted fear and unease, the nerves of trying to track unseen footsteps as they circled him, the constant uncertainty-

“Grandmaster,” she said, and Zevran was now very aware of the Abbot’s Collar resting against his chest. Nausea hit him a moment later. _Him? Grandmaster? Slavemaster_ of stolen children and tortured adults?

He knew, in a detached way, that his expression was likely one of fear and panic. But he couldn’t _tell_ even as it left Mahendra kneeling on the floor waiting for the mind game, for the trick, the uncaring words and the sure punishment for _something,_ and he should- he should-

 _He owned her._ If he was Grandmaster then he _owned her, all_ of the Crows, the- the-

No. _No._

The Crows were gone. He had helped Tiar and Diego and they _loved him_. This wasn’t the Crows coming to him, the man who’d murdered his way to Grandmaster. This was scared and running people coming to him, the one who’d found stability and could help.

He was in control here.

There was nothing to fear.

Zevran sat on the floor by Mahendra. She could call him Grandmaster, but he didn’t have to act like it. She was- she had to be about the same age as Theron had been during the Blight.

Zevran carefully placed his hands in hers, in her lap.

“Mahendra,” he said gently. “Look at me?”

She looked up at him hesitantly. She looked much the same as he vaguely remembered- large eyes, quiet presence, long hair, slight features otherwise.

“I have taken in escaped apprentices,” he said, and in the moment’s pause Mahendra put in: “Tiar and Diego.”

“Yes,” Zevran agreed. “I will make you the same promise I made them. If you try to attack me or mine, I will defend myself and them, but I will _not_ try to hurt you. I will not try to trick you, or play with your head. I will not hit you. There will be no torture. I want you to be honest with me. There are no punishments for questions, or disagreeing, or having opinions or preferences or thoughts. You are your own person.”

The look she was giving him was technically unreadable, but he’d been there before. Disbelief was hiding under that, and strangled hope.

“A gift of fealty and confidence from the Archivist,” she continued, with the barest hint of uncertainty. “Who hopes the curation of your Crows is in order. Courtesans, artificers, apprentices, and children to save us, as you wished.”

 _‘Destroy the Crows to save the assassins’_ was something he’d thought on the Rialto rooftop of Azieri Amajuan. Thought, and never said aloud. Never told anyone of; because it was a _ridiculous_ and impractical thought and he couldn’t have saved anyone besides the children he’d taken from Antiva and the Crows without committing, truly _committing_ and he couldn’t do that. Not with Theron, not with him offering yet more future and _marriage_ in Ferelden instead of just letting him go in Antiva.

He’d never told anyone about those thoughts, that the courtesans and artificers would be the easiest to split off from the Houses and the most likely to listen and learn as he had, outside of the apprentices circling their breaking points and the children only part-broken.

_The Archivist knows everything._

He banished the thought. Not now.

She pulled off a bag that was hanging off her shoulder and opened it, pulling out a stack of document cases, made of thick Antivan leather. The side flaps were cinched halfway across the face of the cases, and engraved brass tags jingled on the sides as the movement jostled them together.

 _‘Diego Medjariq’_ , the first one read. The next: _‘Tiar Iashtitasha’_. Under that was _‘Rinnala Estafanez’_ and _‘Taliesin Sayer’_.

At the bottom were _‘Adan Zanchiachi’_ and _‘Zevran Adanez’_.

Mahendra had just handed him Crow assassin files. Their records of sale and acceptance would be in these files, because there was no one for keeping records like an Antivan and Crows were thorough. Even children who died in the first round of culling had files, noting their names, purchase information, upkeep costs, manner of death - anything and everything. His own file was thick enough that he could barely get his fingers around it.

Everything he’d ever done was in this leather case. Every torture and training the Crows had put him through. Every contract he’d filled. Every person he’d killed. Every night he’d been out at the parties, every punishment he’d taken, every detail, every day, every moment he’d ever forgotten and all the ones he couldn’t forget and they were all written down here black and white on ink and paper in undeniable truth a lifetime of slavery, savagery, and sexuality where anyone could see.

He should be panicking, shouldn’t he? Having all this information in front of him, tangible, real, accessible?

He wasn’t. It was odd. But he could sit here, with all of this, and it was - _fine._ No one had to see it. He didn’t have to show anyone. It was his. He could destroy it. He could ignore it.

_He was in control._

“Thank you,” he told her, and put them aside. “Mahendra - how many of you are there? Where are they?”

“Many,” she said. “We brought everything. The Archivist said that you’ve been Grandmaster since Master Arainai. We have the Archives. We have the treasury. We have apprentices and the children. They’re yours. The Crows are yours.”

They would address this later.

“There is an old castle in the west, on a lake,” she continued, and subtly shifted to make the impression that she was facing Theron, though she was still slightly averting her gaze from Zevran’s face. “Caer Dughlean, in the Knotwood Hills. We would stay. Please, Grandmaster, we will serve, you and His Arlship Commander, we will serve. We have full assassins, we have artificers, we have courtesans, we have enough apprentices and children to keep training-”

“No,” Zevran cut her off.

“We are Crows and we will serve as-”

“Mahendra.”

“We will-” Mahendra started to press, urgency born from fear starting to color her tone.

“There is no need to be _useful,_ ” Zevran said. “Or to serve. You and the others can stay, but we will need to discuss the future. I would have you, and if I have my way, you will stay. But ultimately, the Queen will have the last say.”

“The Archivist has a payment for the Queen,” Mahendra said. “The Crows know what really happened to King Maric Theirin.”


	15. Chapter 15

Theron had been ready and waiting long before all the people he’d sent notes for arrived. Leonie and Nelle came first, sitting together quietly at the furthest corner of the table, followed soon after by Mhequi. He had time to privately, sadly reflect that Rhannur was up past the Blasted Hills with the Voshai and unavailable. He'd been active enough that he'd have liked to have the man here for this.

Eventually, the others straggled in from mobbing Anders about his sister. Andreas and Sigrun made it first, then Oghren. Alistair, Nathaniel, and Anders came in together, and Theron closed the door behind them.  

“So,” he said, taking his seat. “Nathaniel was really stressed, and it wasn’t good for him, so we agreed he’s not Constable any longer.”

No one said anything out loud, but Nathaniel’s expression said a lot about bluntness.

“And I was thinking,” Theron continued. “We have some organizational problems. Like – how is the Mage Corps actually going to work? We still don’t know that. Also, I think maybe having a Constable is a _lot._ I can see how it would work for the other Wardens, who only really seem to have one outpost per country. But _we_ have here and Kal’Hirol and Soldier’s Keep and groups we send out to oversee parts of the country that still have Taint issues are out for long while. A Constable who can act on behalf of the Commander is the Commander is injured or away or something is fine when everyone is all in the same place anyway. You can have a Keeper and a First in the clans the same way, because it _works._ But we have the same sort of problem that the clans do now, because there’s the part of any clan that lives at Hallarenis’haminathe, but most of them have part of the clan still out where they were wandering before. So you can’t _have_ a Keeper in one place and the First in another, because you need both. I was talking with my mother and a lot of clans decided to make their Firsts Keepers of one part of the clan, and then both Keepers take new Firsts. There’s been some shuffling about it. I think we need to do sort of the same.”

“Commander,” Nathaniel said. “You can’t make _another_ Commander. The title is tied to the Arling.”

“Well, I know,” Theron replied. “But I think there’s no point in having a Constable. I’m thinking that the Mage Corps has a Captain, Kal’Hirol has a Captain, and Soldier’s Peak and Vigil’s Keep and at least one other one, but probably two, to lead field teams and expeditions. So that’s what this is about. Oghren and Alistair and Anders are already Captains, and I’m happy to keep them there if they want, but we’ll need some others and there’s deciding who takes what positions and yes I _do_ know that someone has to be designated as my second.”

He sat back in his chair.

“So go ahead.”

The table was silent. People were looking at each other uncertainly.

“Talk about who you want to be my second?” Theron prompted. “You’re the Senior Wardens, besides the Voshai who haven’t stepped into leadership positions or aren’t here right now and Velanna who has her clan. I’m fine with any of you. But it’s not _me_ who has to be in charge or who you have to work with when I’m not here. This is _your_ decision.”

There were a few more silent moments, and then Anders said: “Well _I’m_ not doing it. Not right now. I have to see to the mages.”

“I don’t want it,” Leonie said. “And I don’t think anyone else would want another Caron in charge.”

“Or an Orlesian,” Nelle put in.

“Don’t have the experience!” Sigrun added happily. “And I want to stay at Kal’Hirol.”

Mhequi simply shook her head.

“I _could,_ ” Andreas said. “But much work. Like going places. More special missions.”

That left three people.

“Don’t look at _me,_ ” Nathaniel told them testily. “I only quit earlier this week, I’m not taking it back.”

Alistair and Oghren looked at each other.

“I’ve been up at Soldiers’ Peak since the repairs, I know it,” Alistair said; at the same time Oghren said: “Me’n Felsi could move up here, but Kal-Hirol’s all Thrune’s got.”

“You’re older than me,” Alistair countered. “You’ve commanded troops before. That’s why Theron left you in charge at Denerim and put you with Kal’Hirol and the Roads cleansings.”

“And who here’s had more Roads experience than me?” was Oghren’s counterpoint. “Warrior-caste from _Orzammar,_ Chantry Boy. Ain’t nobody better than me for it.”

“Sigrun was in _the Legion of the Dead._ ”

“Hey, I said I wasn’t doing it!”

“Legionnaires go out there to _die._ Warrior caste fights to come _back._ No leavin’ people in the Roads so long as we can help it, that’s the rule.”

“I’m _pretty sure_ that’s supposed to be the mindset of a Commander who cares about morale. Morale’s important, I know, I _lived_ it.”

Oghren gave Alistair a level look across the table and told him: “Yer the one whose been with Theron longest, and you ain’t run off yet.”

Theron was pretty sure there should be a higher standard for a second-in-command than that, but, well. Nathaniel’s stress was his fault. Partly. Mostly. That was probably an important standard. But also probably it shouldn’t be.

Everyone else seemed more in agreement about the necessity of a second-in-command being able to stand him, because no one protested Oghren’s point.

Alistair let his head _thunk_ gently against the table and muttered _“fuck”_ against the wood.

“You really don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Theron offered. “We could leave the vote, and then when I’m gone the Senior Wardens-”

“No no, I’ll do it!” Alistair cut in, raising his head. “But no more _titles! ‘Lord-Captain Mac Maric’_ is bad enough!”

“Then you can just be Lord-Captain,” Theron assured him.

“Great,” Oghren grunted. “You both ain’t around, I’ll do it _then._ ”

That sounded very reasonable.

“Assignments then?” Theron suggested.

“Kal-Hirol,” Oghren and Sigrun said, before anyone had the chance to counter with another topic.

“That’s fine,” he agreed. “Sigrun, how do you feel about being a Lieutenant?”

“What’s that mean?”

“That you’re second-in-command to a Captain, basically,” Theron said. “Since _places_ are centralized, it makes more sense to have that sort of hierarchy.”

“In the field,” Andreas claimed. Nelle quietly agreed.

Leonie fidgeted some in her seat before admitting: “I’d rather have a station. The field isn’t…”

“I’m sure we can work that out,” Theron said.

“ _I’d_ rather not leave my clinic,” Anders said. “Most of the mages have been up at the Peak, I know, but I’m not much good stuck up on a mountain at least five days’ ride from anyone who _really needs_ a healer.”

“You can’t be everywhere,” Nathaniel said quietly.

“Hey, I can _try._ ”

“Be good to have you at the Roads,” Oghren put in. “We ain’t _losin’_ ground to the Darkspawn, but we ain’t gainin’ any either. Fightin’s pretty regular, even if it’s clear to Orzammar. Plenty of work to do down there.”

“And mages are really good against Darkspawn,” Theron said. “Is there anyone you could leave the clinic to?”

“I’d rather it be another spirit healer,” Anders said. “But we don’t _have_ another one. We’ve got plenty of offense, some defense, and most of them could heal in a scrape, but it’s not what they _do._ ”   

“We could ask around for another one.”

“Spirit healers aren’t that common.”

“Maybe just someone who’s really good at healing then?” Theron suggested. “There are herbalists. And apothecaries and… things. We have the money, we could hire a group to take over if you leave.”

“Still rather have another spirit healer,” Anders said, but looked resigned. “Oghren’s got a good point, though, Commander. The Wardens could use me more at Kal’Hirol.”

“If you’re going, remember to take time outside,” Theron reminded him. “I know you don’t like it down there, don’t make yourself miserable if you have another reasonable choice.”

“Maybe it will be better this time,” Anders said glumly. “Darktown wasn’t great, either. The Deep Roads might be _cleaner._ ”

The Mage Corps was going to be run out Kal’Hirol, then.

“I know Soldiers’ Peak,” Alistair said after a moment. “But if I’m supposed to be…?”

“It would be a good practice, I think,” Nathaniel said. “For the Captain who is second-in-command to be Captain of the Vigil. Near the power, where they can learn about the workings of the Arling, and about the Arl side of the position they may later hold.”

“You’d take Soldiers’ Peak, then?” Alistair asked him.

 _“No,”_ Nathaniel said. “ _No,_ it would- I’d worry too much. I could do a field command, I think. If you wanted me to.”

The last was directed at Theron. For a moment he thought about reminding Nathaniel that this was a _group decision,_ even if he did have the final say – but Nathaniel wasn’t really like that. He liked hierarchy and stability and clarity.

So instead, Theron turned to Leonie.

“You wanted a station. Would you-?”

She looked uncomfortable, as if waiting for an insurmountable danger to descend.

“I- I could try,” Leonie said. “Commander. I. Don’t really know about. All that; the magic and the things that go with it, if the idea is still to put new mages there-”

“Mhequi,” Alistair said. “The Voshai have been up there as long as I have, and they listen to you. You had the Keep while we were all gone. Could you take the Peak? And have Leonie as your Lieutenant?”

Leonie looked relieved to hear it, and Theron had yet to hear any of the Voshai truly argue with Alistair, so that was Soldiers’ Peak settled.

“Nelle?” he asked. “Andreas? Nathaniel? Field teams?”

“I’d,” Nathaniel said quietly. “I’d rather not have a command. For a while. I’ll… go to Kal’Hirol. Do some traditional Warden business.”

“You take all the time you need,” Theron told him.

The door creaked open. They all turned to look, and saw Tiar trying to slip into the room.

“Tiar?” Theron asked. “Do you-”

Apparently spurred by being noticed, she darted to him, dropped a folded piece of paper, and disappeared as fast as she’d come.

Theron unfolded the paper. He read it over.

“All right,” he said, putting the message aside for a moment. “Mhequi, Oghren, Nelle, Andreas – start picking Wardens for your commands. Tell them the Captaincies have been changed, and wait to actually ask anyone until everyone with a command has an idea of who they want. Alistair – Zevran wants us.”

* * *

King Maric Theirin, King Maric the Savior, had died when his ship had gone down on the Waking Sea. It was the only explanation for why his ship had disappeared between Denerim and Wycome in 9:25. Teyrn Loghain had searched for him, of course, because no one else reported storms enough to sink a ship. But two years, and no king and no news of him but persistent, never-substantiated rumor that the Orlesians had him imprisoned in various castles or forts or dungeons, had forced the Landsmeet’s hand. Maric had been declared dead and Cailan had been crowned king.

“Who the hell is Aurelius Titus?”

Orlesians, Alistair could understand. Tevenes, not so much. Ferelden hadn’t done anything to them. Not since the Alamarri had risen against the Imperium under Andraste- and the Tevenes _were_ Andrasteans. Technically. Not the _proper_ way, but they still swore by the Maker. The only other slight in recent memory could have been their slaughtering of the Tevene slavers Loghain had allowed in, but that had been years after King Maric had disappeared.

“A magister, the close favorite of former Archon Davan,” Erlina said. Zevran had gathered the five of them in Theron’s office after he’d had received the contract file from the other Crow. “Under Archon Radonis, he has retained his power, if not his closeness to the Archon’s throne. He commands great influence despite purportedly holding no lands or other titles. I have heard that he is a dangerous man to cross, and that he wishes to see Tevene _‘return to its former glory’_. Rumors of Old God worship follow him, but otherwise, I have heard nothing. I find it uncomfortable. He has no past, and those of great power with so many unknowns about them are invariably hiding something. The only new information is that the Crows discovered he keeps his home at Ath Velanis on Seheron.”

“I just… cannot see the _point,_ ” Zevran said. The contract file was open in front of him on Theron’s desk. It was a tight fit, but they’d managed to get everyone around it, if not seated. He was looking over the contract again. “The lowest payment on completion of a contract the Crows will even _consider_ is 100 gold, and most in Antiva come out to three hundred or three hundred and fifty. The contract on Theron and Alistair was 1,600 gold, for the inconvenience of Ferelden and the danger of Wardens.”

“I’m worth 800 gold?” Theron asked.

“Young and untrained, and with the Crows too scared of the Wardens to bargain higher, you were,” Zevran said. “ _Now,_ if there were anyone willing to make a true attempt on you- for difficulty and danger, it would have to be… sixty to eighty thousand, _to start_.”

“This Aurelius Titus only paid thirty thousand for King Maric!” Alistair exclaimed, aware as he said it of the ridiculousness of the outburst- _only_ thirty thousand, as if thirty thousand couldn’t hire master stonemasons to remake Vigil’s Keep from the Deep Roads up twice as strong.

“And it was an easy contract in comparison,” Zevran countered. “You hire some pirates, you put some Crows on the ship, and you coerce some apostates into coming along to provide the power to make certain the pirates win and the ship sinks. Then it is merely capturing Maric alive - no great feat, for all he is a hero he never did anything like yourself or Theron - and handing him over to Magister Titus. Extra for Ferelden, extra for royalty, extra for live capture, extra for transportation, extra for the cost of the pirates, extra for unusual circumstances- it adds up.”

He drummed his fingers on the papers.

“And it makes no _sense!_ If Magister Titus wanted King Maric dead, it would have been much cheaper. But he paid a king’s ransom to have him captured and delivered and then _nothing._ There is _no gain_ here! He never demanded a counter-ransom! We would not even _know_ without this file!”

“I could even understand if they meant it as an opening move in a war,” Anora said, leaning back in her seat. “It would be a demoralizing first blow. But it has been a decade. If there _was_ such a plan, I would be unsurprised if it faltered, or failed. I _hope_ it did.”

“They would have to march through Nevarra or sail through the Qunari first,” Erlina pointed out. “The Tevinter Imperium simply doesn’t have the resources, and I cannot see any reason why they would make a move to have peace with the Qunari simply to come and attack us.”

“Flanking move against Orlais?” Alistair suggested.

“Circuitous and inefficient.”

“They’re Tevene Magisters,” Theron spoke up. “Reason doesn’t matter. They’ll do it just to hurt you.”

“I think the relevant question,” Zevran said, and joined Alistair in shooting a worried glance at Theron. Alistair figured it was understandable that his friend would say something like that, given Kirkwall and being Dalish, but it was still off-kilter to his usual self, and didn’t sit right. “Is what is going to be done about this. Diplomatic complaints seem rather unfitting, given the circumstances, and I doubt the Magisters would ever agree to punish one of their own for _Ferelden;_ but perhaps you could get terms for a proper ransom? Or his…”

There was no good way to put _‘his remains’_. It felt awful to even think, though Alistair had been used to considering Maric dead long ago. He was vaguely ill even just contemplating the thought of the Tevinter Imperium shipping Maric’s ashes back like- like _cargo._ And what if they _hadn’t_ burned him, what if-

“Alive or dead,” Anora said. Her voice was hard. “Magister Aurelius Titus has done us a great wrong, and I would see one done _back._ King Maric was lost in 9:25. Aurelius Titus came to power in 9:28- the year my father had to end his search and the Landsmeet officially declared King Maric dead, lost at sea. I cannot believe that this is a coincidence. Cailan was not what you would want for a ruling king, and I would be unsurprised if the Imperium had noted such. Perhaps it was all a ploy to weaken us towards some end.”

Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair.

“But we are _not_ weak. Beaten, yes. Poor, perhaps. But never _weak._ I will have Aurelius Titus _destroyed_ and King Maric returned to us.”

She looked to them.

“Is Fort Drakon and a Blight more of a challenge than a Magister’s stronghold?”

Alistair glanced at his friends.

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” he told Anora. “But I would pledge my sword and honor to this, Your Royal Highness.”

* * *

Their meeting with Anora was short. There wasn’t much to say, really, besides agreeing that something should be done. That really fell on Alistair, who left just after Anora and Erlina did to begin his planning.

But now he’d had a few moments to himself, without having to focus on the next important and pressing thing to do, and he’d come to a question he would have rather never had to consider. He wasn’t ready to try answering it, not yet, so he took the bag and left the room.

Theron had other work to do, after all, he told himself.

The first people he sought out were the children. This was a quick errand. It was simply taking them aside for a moment, having some quiet words about privacy and personal choices, and handing over the files. They could do with them what they wished.

The second errand was his mother. It was more painful than the children. She took the file from him and was so obviously trying not to cry.

“ _Mamae_?”

“I don’t know if I want to know this,” she said quietly.

“You do not have to read it,” he told her. “Or even open it. I have not. But there is no one else to take it.”

“You don’t want it?”

This, they hadn’t talked about.

“I know he is very important to you,” Zevran said after a moment. “And I would have liked to have known him. But you are the only one who does. I am content enough to know the simple truth of his name, and that he loved you - _us_ \- and that he did it despite the Crows.”

His mother wavered, and Zevran shifted closer to her. She leaned into his shoulder and he held her loosely.

“Zanchiachi,” she said against his shirt. “Why not-”

“ _Compradi_ come- _came-_ ”

How _good_ it was to be able to say that.

“-to the Crows four or five years before they were taken into a House, at least. So, family names, to keep them differentiated. I assume there was a system for after they were part of a House.”

“Zanchiachi,” she said again.

“It is a town at the base of the Hundred Pillars,” Zevran told her. “The last outpost of Antiva before the barren winds and the Imperium.”

His mother breathed in, and pulled away from him.

“Thank you, _da’len_.”

He left her with the file and went up to his and Theron’s rooms. He put his file down on the bed and sat himself down on the furs in front of the fireplace, pulling out the Abbot’s Collar from his shirt.

It was heavy. Gold was a soft metal, but it had to have been alloyed with something for it to keep the molded birds on it still sharp and clear over the centuries. It still showed wear and damage, and signs of older repair work.

He almost wished that he’d dumped it in the ocean, but it wasn’t like that would have helped him. He still would be, by the rules of succession, Grandmaster. Mahendra and the others would still have come.

Or not. The Archivist - he wasn’t going to think about that now. He was going to stay calm until Theron came.

He didn’t know how long it took. He lost his sense of time after a while of focusing on his breathing. However long it had been, it had been enough time for Theron to get worked up about something. He strode into the room with a furious scowl.

“And what has gone wrong now?”

_“I hate the Warden-Commander of Antiva.”_

“Yes?”

“There was a _letter,_ ” Theron fumed, stripping off the breastplate he’d been wearing. “That- _I hate him!_ The _day_ after we left Antiva he wrote a _letter_ and sent it to _all the other_ Warden-Commanders about how I was _‘overstepping my bounds’_ and _‘disrespectful of the Order’_ and _accused me_ of having an overblown ego _‘just because Ferelden calls him hero’_ \- I hate him! And _other_ Commanders wrote _me -_ I asked Nelle and Leonie to ask Commander Clarel about handling the Chantry and _her_ answer was that I should mind the laws and keep to the established order and the Commander in the Marches _politely suggested_ that I pay more attention to _‘your own assignments’_ and the _First Warden_ wrote to _blame me_ for the fact that the other Dalish Wardens got fed up with no one _listening_ to them and up and _walked off_ to head for Hallarenis’haminathe _and_ that I needed to stop doing _anything_ but concerning myself with darkspawn and the Taint and _ordering me_ to send the Dalish Wardens back _and - fuck him! Fuck him!_ ”

“Perhaps do not.”

“I wrote them back! _All_ of them! Because _Warden-Commander Aminti_ is a _pile of deceiving **shit**_ so I made it _damn clear_ that Antiva City was about _getting my fiancé back,_ who he had _handed over to the Crows,_ for _reporting darkspawn activity,_ and that _we_ had to clean up his shit _for him! He wasn’t **doing his job!**_ And _also_ that’s what we did in _Kirkwall_ and that I’m _not_ going to stop doing what I’m doing because it’s _working_ and if they didn’t want me like this and didn’t want part of the Wardens like this _then they should have **fucking come during the Blight!**_ Loghain was only blocking _Orlesian_ Wardens! The _Free Marchers_ could have come! The _Nevarrans!_ The _Antivans! Anyone_ from the Anderfels! _They **all knew!** Duncan _knew it was a Blight _long_ before Ostagar and I know because Alistair _told me_ and the other Senior Wardens knew _too_ and _it was a **fucking Blight they were all dreaming the Horde and the Archdemon!**_ **_And they ABANDONED US!_** **_They never even TRIED!_** There should have been _twice, **three times**_ the number of Wardens at Ostagar than there were and there _weren’t_ and _why not-!_ ”

“That sounds like it has been building for some time,” Zevran said after a moment, as Theron caught his breath and tried to avoid angry tears.

“I’m so _mad,_ ” Theron said, and collapsed onto the furs next to him, forehead coming to rest on his shoulder.

“I can see,” Zevran said. “Do you have some time?”

“Mm-hm,” Theron replied, cuddling up into him. Zevran threaded a hand into his hair.

“I have a conundrum,” he said. “A double-edged sword, if you will.”

“The Crows?”

“Not at the moment. My records. I want- you should see them. So that there are no nasty surprises, or things I cannot bring myself to speak about. But. It is... very much. I was a Crow and I was not a good person.”

“You _are_ good.”

“I was not always.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“And here is the problem,” Zevran said. “I- it is not true. That I was a good person. But. I do not. I _wish_ it were true, and I would like to hear it, but it is a lie. But it is such a sweet lie when _you_ say it, my dear; and would that I could agree, despite what it would make of me.”

“You’re-”

“The person I am _now_ is a good person,” Zevran cut him off. “Who I was when I met you, _no._ If the Battle of Ostagar- that was 11 Haring. Rinna died 6 Haring. If Ostagar had been but a month before, Theron, it could very well have been that Eoman Arainai would have sent us on _your_ contract in the hopes that Rinna would die in the Blight or some such, and not after that merchant. You would be very dead, my dear, and I would not _care,_ and I would be a Crow still.”

“It still might not have worked,” Theron said stubbornly. “It’s hard to kill Wardens.”

 “Consider this then,” Zevran countered. “The Battle of Ostagar occurs one year later, and either Rinna is not dead or I was not able to kill myself. Would we be here had I come to you a torturer and a child rapist?”

Theron was still embracing him. Zevran felt it as his fiancé stopped himself from flinching away.

“That was who I was going to be,” he said quietly. “One more big, difficult contract; and I would have been old enough and have proved myself enough to be put to training apprentices. All three of us would have been. I would have tortured children. I would have raped those in training to be courtesans. Apprentices that were not obedient, or did not improve quickly enough, I would have killed. I would not have _enjoyed_ it, perhaps. But I would not feel bad about it – less pleased to do some tasks than others, but only in the normal way of work. I would not have thought twice about doing any of it. It would simply be how the world worked, and I would have been fulfilling my place in it.”

“You’d still be good _under_ that,” Theron said. His voice was trembling.

“You say that because you love me and know me now,” Zevran told him. “You would not spare a Magister who beat and raped their slaves, though that is what _they_ would have been raised to think was the right way of the world, and they could have been someone quite different if they had been born elsewhere.”

He twisted, and Theron let him go, only to clutch onto his shoulders when Zevran moved in close enough to cup his face, smoothing away stray tears, and rested their foreheads together.

“I am who I am because you are who you are, _amora._ You heard an elf make light of his own slavery and your only desire was to make him happy. You saved me from myself and from the life I would have lived. You have said I do not owe you – so very well, it was a gift freely given. But it is _such_ a gift, Theron.”

“ _Ma’sal’shiral_ ,” was the simple answer. And then: “Then, Satheraan, these other Crows-”

“The Artificers will have done nothing to the apprentices but teach,” Zevran answered. “For the others, it depends how old they are and how good they are. It is foolish, I know, because I have just given you my argument against it – but I have hope, still. That given the chance they would not voluntarily continue what they have been doing. And that I can somehow provide them with enough of the kindness you showed me, so that they can become better than they were.”

“It’s not foolish to want to give people better things,” Theron murmured to him, then pushed him back far enough that they could see each properly. “I’ll help with the apprentices, and the Crows who haven’t trained anyone, because _fine,_ you’re right. I know the circumstances of the _other_ ones, and they were _awful_ and they were trying not to die but I don’t know them and I don’t know if I could… do for them what I did for you.”

“And here we are back at the point, because if you cannot truly say they are good people – the fear is still there, that if you know what is in that file, you will put me aside, or think differently of me, or love me less.”

“I could _never._ ”

“Regardless,” Zevran said. “I could have so easily been them; and you have just said that you cannot see them as you saw me.”

Silence reigned for a few moments.

“But you didn’t do what they did.”

“I was going to.”

“But you _didn’t,_ ” Theron said. “And you wouldn’t.”

Zevran sighed and closed his eyes.

“I would not. _Now._ ”

“If it scares you so much, I won’t look at the file.”

“But I would have you see it,” Zevran said. “It feels like lying to do otherwise.”

“You haven’t lied to me,” Theron reminded him. “Rialto. Your mother. Being bought. Training. Assassin work. Rinna. This is just more details.”

“Details you cannot unknow,” Zevran told him quietly.

Theron took his hands.

“I’m going to get really emotional and protective about you if I read this, right?” he said.

“Given past experience I quite doubt it could go differently.”

“Then how about we wait,” Theron said. “For a better time. When I can go be angry at everything somewhere else and you’re not at the end of a day with a lot of Crow things in it. I don’t want it to turn into a fight.”

It had been a day. Not as bad as some of the other ones recently, but with the files and being called _‘Grandmaster’_ it had been enough to wear on him.

“I would like that.”

“Okay.”

There was a moment, and then:

“Satheraan? Look at me?”

Zevran lifted his gaze from the floor to meet Theron’s eyes.

“You told me about Rinna, and I don’t love you any less. I was there for Taliesin, and I don’t love you any less. You told me about being a courtesan, and I don’t love you any less. When we do look at that file, I’m still going to love you.”

Zevran opened his mouth to speak.

“And want you, and like you.”

He closed it.

“You are good,” Theron said solemnly. “You might not believe it, but I do. You are good and I love you and I’m going to keep saying it. Try to listen to it?”

Listening was easier than believing. Zevran nodded.

“Good,” Theron said, and leaned in, kissing him. “Come to bed, _ma’len_.”

* * *

It was her talent to wait and watch, fading into the background and unknown until she struck with bow or blade, then gone as quickly as she had come. The Crows had trained her in stealth but _watching_ what she had always done. She had good eyes and true hands and unmatched speed. She could shoot a bird out of the sky or hit a mouse streaking across a room.

Zevran Arainai been a graduated Crow since she’d been in House Arainai. She’d graduated to Crow just before Eoman Arainai had been killed. She had had no direct interaction with him; but she’d watched him and Rinnala and Taliesin. They had been the best, and she was good, and she didn’t and hadn’t wanted to die.

So she knew some things about Zevran Arainai. How he walked. His common gestures. Facial expressions. His affect was to be pleasing and charming, witty on occasion and outrageous if it would add levity to the situation.

Everyone had an affect. His had been a reasonable choice for a courtesan. Some people liked quiet, some people liked demure, some people liked passion, some people liked brash. But he was Grandmaster now. She had expected it to be gone. It had been gone.

He was Grandmaster. She had given him her deference; and he had not accepted it. She had not expected that.

Mahendra didn’t know _why_ the Grandmaster had rejected her. She had followed the Archivist’s orders. She had not harmed anyone here.

His Arlship Commander had said they were not needed. He did not want their service. Then the Grandmaster had they did not need to be _useful._

It was wrong and the Grandmaster did not like things. Them. Her. They had done something wrong. He had given her rules but most were about him, and did not make sense.

It was a test. Mahendra had to make sense of it. His rules said she was not to hurt anyone that was his. This was a simple rule. She understood it.

His rules also required honesty. This was not so simple. Maybe he wanted to know them so he could best use them. Maybe he wanted to know when they had thoughts that were not right so they could be made better. There had to be a point in honesty.

Perhaps it was wordplay. His rules said he would not hit them, or torture them, or deliberately mislead them. Total honesty. He had others to do such work when it was required. She should know who. The Grandmaster and His Arlship Commander loved each other. People did many things when they loved others.

Possibility: the Wardens would be the Grandmaster’s tools of punishment.

When would they come for her. She had failed. She did not know why. The Grandmaster did not accept her. _What had she done?_

She would have to wait. And watch. The Grandmaster had apprentices. If she observed how he expected them to behave, she could learn better. How to behave. How to be useful. How to be kept and not discarded.

Mahendra decided that she would watch the Wardens as well, but for now, her objective was the Grandmaster and his apprentices. It was early and they were up and she was up, though she was more up _physically_ here in a hidden niche than the three of them below in the almost-empty training grounds.

Tiar and the Grandmaster had knives. Diego did not. He sat on a low wall that blocked off part of the training grounds. He was an observer as she was.

The Grandmaster faced his elder apprentice. They sparred. It should have been understandable. But it was not. The Grandmaster did not best her and throw her to the ground. He did not tumble. He did not use most of his advantages. He let her come at him and he blocked and he did not attack but to strike at weak points in her form. Even then, he did not touch her.

Tiar and the Grandmaster had knives but they were not trying to draw blood. The Grandmaster seemed unconcerned that his apprentice had weapons and opportunity. Tiar did not fight to survive. He blocked her attacks and his own never landed on her. He stopped short every time. She was never stabbed. She was never slashed.

They disengaged. They went again.

How was she learning anything if she was not being hurt.

Mahendra had to solve this puzzle. Preferably before they took her to rejoin the other Crows. They all needed to know what the Grandmaster _really_ wanted from them.  

She shadowed the Grandmaster through breakfast. That was in the kitchens, with the apprentices. She followed him to His Arlship Commander’s office. There were no windows into that room. She could not watch.

The apprentices were little better. They had breakfast with the Grandmaster. When he went to His Arlship Commander’s office they did what any Crow would do. Test walls, find exits, examine roofs. They took lunch again in the kitchens. After that it was to a room with a man. The door was closed but she had seen a window. A position outside where she could see in showed them at, at lessons? Academic lessons?

Tiar was too old for such things. Why was she there.

It was an unuseful day. It did not get better in the evening. The Grandmaster turned in the hallway as he went from His Arlship Commander’s office to dinner and clasped his hands behind his back and said: “Mahendra,” and she had to come out and show herself.

“Tomorrow morning we leave for Caer Dughlean, after breakfast,” he informed her. “Meet us in the courtyard?”

If that was what the Grandmaster wanted.

The only good information she gathered before she slept was listening to an argument between the Grandmaster and his apprentices from the hallway outside their room. The Grandmaster did not want his apprentices to come. The apprentices insisted.

“You left once and you didn’t come _back,_ ” Tiar said, and it won the argument.

Apprentices did not win arguments. Apprentices did not argue. Crows did not argue. The Grandmaster said what the Grandmaster said and it was done. But the Grandmaster sighed. He told his apprentices that very well, they could come, but if there was a trap they _must_ run.

This was good. Grandmasters must be cautious. So must all Crows. It was not a trap. But you had to assume.

The next morning she had breakfast in the kitchen, staying small in the background of the morning’s work. The kitchen servants ignored her. Tiar scowled at her. Mahendra stared back. Tiar was the Grandmaster’s apprentice but Mahendra was a graduated Crow and she did not know who ranked the higher.

But she had been here _first._

Tiar took a different background spot. Mahendra had noticed it but chosen differently. When the Grandmaster came he seemed unsurprised. So this was normal? This was what they did here? Watch the kitchen servants?

It would discourage poisoning. This was Crow behavior. The Grandmaster’s apprentices protected the Grandmaster. Mahendra had been sent directly to the Grandmaster. She was one of his, now, then?

It would not hurt to act as though she were. Mahendra did her best to give the Grandmaster the impression that she had been being vigilant to misdeeds by the servants.

He smiled at her and said: “Good morning,” and gave her more to eat.

Why.

Again, later was not better. In the courtyard was His Arlship Commander, the Queen, the Queen’s fiancé, His Arlship Commander’s large dog, a group of Wardens.

And horses.

The Grandmaster was going to have her ride a horse.

She did not know how to ride a horse horses were for royalty horses were for the old country nobility she did not-

The Grandmaster had a horse for her so she got on the horse.

It was high and it moved and she could not easily get off and she did not know how to ride one but she knew them in theory and these were things that spooked easily and could kill you when they did.

Horses were _traps._

What was she supposed to do. What had she done. There were- she was-

She was noting the land as they passed through it. For the first day, relatively flat and easy. For some time, the road went through a forest.

Forests were also traps. The Grandmaster and His Arlship Commander and everyone seemed unconcerned with the trees.

There were no direct lines of sight anywhere. Each tree was a hiding place. There were shadows. Enclosed spaces. Yes there were many of them and most were Wardens but _forests were not safe._

By late afternoon they were out of the forest. It was flat and fields and farms until sunset, when they arrived at Riverreach.

Mahendra had passed through Riverreach on her way to Vigil’s Keep. She had hidden in the eaves of a storehouse and dozed wedged in a corner of the roof.

With the Grandmaster and His Arlship Commander they stay at an inn.

The Grandmaster paid for her to have her own room.

 _Why_ it was bigger than she needed she was not a _Maestra_ or a House Master and this was too much _what did he want._

The next day on the road proceeded parallel to the River Hafter. Fields, farms, much the same.

But then again in the afternoon _trees,_ the Knotwood, and they were in the trees and they were in the trees and it was getting dark and she was on a _horse_ and there were _sounds_ and she didn’t know them and and and

It was after dark when they came to the edge of the forest and the lights of Knotwood Town. Another night, another inn. His Arlship Commander and the Grandmaster and the Queen stayed awake into the late hours of the night and so did she, watching. Many people came through the tavern room of the inn. There was much talking. It was crowded. Ideal assassination conditions.

Mahendra watched from a dark spot in the rafters and no one threatened the Grandmaster or His Arlship Commander or the Queen.

The next morning the Wardens split from their group and rode southwest to Kal’Hirol. The Grandmaster and His Arlship Commander and the Queen and the Queen’s fiancé and the Grandmaster’s apprentices and His Arlship Commander’s large dog and her continued on the main road, west-northwest.

Today it was hills. Very large hills. Green mountains. Deep valleys. Very dramatic lighting. The Grandmaster made comments about artists weeping over the missed inspiration in these hills. His Arlship Commander talked at length about the process of wool from the sheep flocks they saw in the hills to the spinners and dyers and weavers in Amaranthine City.

Mahendra stayed silent.

The third night was a settlement, larger than a village, not really a town. Carmay. The people in Carmay told His Arlship Commander not to take the road direct to Caer Doughlean. It was not in good repair, the people of Carmay said. And there were strangers in the Caer.

Mahendra agreed. The road out of Caer Doughlean was not in good repair. It was another level of defense for the Caer and the House of Crows.

The next day was hills. Hills were better than trees. At the top of hills you could see very far. That night was spent in a village. Coldun.

The fifth day Mahendra wished they had taken the road to Caer Doughlean because they rode through hills to a river and then there was _another forest_ and the forest was _in the hills_ and it was _bad,_ everything about this was _very bad._ Better to camp on the road in a spot you chose and could scout than this.

Lochslea was where they stopped for the fifth night. It was a village _in the forest._

It should have been entirely unacceptable. It nearly was. But Lochslea had the river on one side and Loch Feith on another and the forest was thinned around the village. There were logging mills. Mahendra approved of less trees.

They stopped early in Lochslea. It was only midafternoon. They could have been to Caer Doughlean by nightfall. But they stopped. The Queen and the Queen’s fiancé held court. So did His Arlship Commander, but he went to people and asked questions and did not wait for people to come to him.

Mahendra had thought to shadow the Grandmaster. So far this had been allowable. But the villagers stared and she knew they were noticing how the Grandmaster and Tiar and herself all had the same facial tattoos. She knew some of the villagers had seen some of the Crows who had tried to obtain food from the forest. There was a connection here. The villagers _saw her._

Mahendra stayed in the room the Grandmaster paid for. It was still too much. Perhaps she was not allowed but she waited up for punishment for not being where she was allowed and fell asleep waiting for it.

It did not come. It did not come in the night, or in the morning, or in the _trees_ a villager led them through to reach Caer Doughlean, or when they reached their destination.

* * *

Their group arrived at Caer Doughlean in the late morning. It had been a day of reasonable weather so far, for this time of year in Ferelden – the sky was blue and the sun was warm, cut by chilled breezes and a moderate amount of clouds. The Caer itself sat atop a crag of land that jutted out in Loch Feith. The walls and main building clearly hadn’t been kept up, but they were Alamarri constructions, meant to withstand the pressures of ice and damp.

“Mahendra, could you go up and tell them we’re coming, please?” Zevran asked, pulling up his horse. Theron stopped as well, giving him a quizzical look.

Mahendra edged her horse past him and started trotting uneasily up towards the Caer. Five-and-some days hadn’t been enough to get her used to riding a horse.

“Satheraan?” Theron asked once she was out of earshot.

“A power play of sorts, just in case,” Zevran explained. “I am showing I have no fear of them knowing where I am, despite that they could use such knowledge to plan an ambush. It also establishes some authority. I may not _like_ having it, but I should use it. And it puts her in front of us. If things go badly, I did not want her between us and the road.”

Theron reached for his hand.

“You’ll do well,” he said. “ _Mahan’das, ma’len_. I’m here with you.”

He took a deep breath.

“At the back, Tiar, Diego,” he told the children. They were on one horse together. “Remember to run, _please._ Theron and I can fight for ourselves.”

Anora had an eyebrow raised when he looked away from the children. Here was a conundrum – royal precedence against the Crows’ expectations and her safety.

She had come armed, as befitted a Fereldan Queen. Theron had his full kit on, all the better to protect against Crows, and in contrast Anora’s breastplate and vanbraces seemed inadequate. He tried to take it in context. If it came to a fight, Anora would be fighting to escape and keep her fiancé alive. Theron was offense. This was the position he always took; and if it came to it, Theron would be putting himself between them and the Crows.

They were going to be fine. They _were._ He’d spent so much time this morning striking the right balance between armed and armored as a Crow and clothed as a rich patron. He didn’t want-

They had to go up to the Caer.

In the end, he didn’t have to say anything. Anora chivvied Rosaire back by Tiar and Diego, and gestured to him to proceed.

Zevran gently tapped his horse to ride a half-length ahead of Theron, just far enough to show authority but not far enough ahead that Theron was completely out of reach. Anora was on his other side, the same length behind.

His stomach was roiling but he kept his breathing steady and tried to stay aware of Theron. It was something else to focus on, as the walls of Caer Doughlean got closer.

There was someone waiting for them at the open gates. By the time he was close enough to dismount, he could identify the dark golden hair and carefully-angled face.  

“Kendra! How unfairly lovely you are-”

 Her eyes dropped. Her knees bent and Zevran caught her under her arms and pulled her out of the kneel she’d begun, hugging her close.

“Please don’t,” he begged quietly, his breath brushing her ear. “I don’t want it like this.”

“You are Grandmaster-”

He stepped back, still holding on to her in case she tried to kneel again.

“I am not a Crow any longer, Kendra,” he told her. “I have not been a Crow for five years now. I will not be Grandmaster, and I will not act like a _congradi_. I am here because you need help, and I can offer some.”

She looked at him warily.

“The Archivist said-”

“I have never met this Archivist,” Zevran said. “They do not know me. I am glad you are here, nonetheless. All of you.”

“You don’t want us-”

He had never seen her panicked. No Crow could really afford that emotion, but courtesans the least of all. It was unattractive, and unpleasant. Even in the relative privacy of the courtesans’ room of House Martell, she had always been collected.

“I want you all to be well, Kendra,” Zevran told her gently. “We all deserved better than the Crows. I would give you what I can to help you _get_ that better.”

Numb pain was not a good look on her.

“We can’t all be you.”

Salvail had said that, as well.

“No,” he said firmly. “You will all be yourselves. Happy, and free.”

The tremble of terror in Kendra’s: _“We can’t,”_ was more than just fear of the unknown and things that had been forbidden.

“Who?”

“You can’t-”

“Kendra. _Who?_ ”

“The Archivist-”

He started striding into the main courtyard of Caer Doughlean. Vantage points and hidden eyes were noted without thought – Mahendra had been sent ahead, and of course they would be waiting, watching, hidden, until they knew what to do.

“Grandmaster, _please!_ ” Kendra pleaded from behind him. “The Archivist _knows everything!_ We can’t fight, we can’t run, we’re _Crows_ the-”

There had been nothing in front of him, and then, there was. A slight thing, shorter than him, enveloped in a black robe with only the steel mask of a crow’s skull visible beneath.

It had no eyes. There was void beneath that silver, and it was looking at him.

There were a lot of things Zevran had encountered in his time. Dragons, darkspawn, so many mages and demons and countless just _people,_ whom he’d either killed or saved.

This was different. He didn’t know what it was and he didn’t particularly want to find out because it stunk of blood and cave mold and the sort of terrible dankness that not even the Deep Roads managed but Kirkwall somehow had even though it wasn’t a smell, it was a taste, a feeling, and he had knives out and lunged and there was nothing but sharp pain around his shoulders and chest and back and blood.

He turned and turned more because it had been _right there_ in front of him and _there it was again,_ just in front of him and he grabbed for it and there was nothing and it raised an arm, spindly claws coming out of that void inside the cloth, thin as stilettos and sharper, the same steel as the mask.

They were long enough for the tips to rest at the base of his throat.

_You don’t wear it._

_This_ he knew.

“Get out of my head!”

_You are a Crow._

_“No.”_

_I have known you since the time of your marking._

The tips of the claws slid lower, over his breastbone.

_I am the Archivist. I am the Archive of the Crows. When destruction comes and paper burns the records are ink on skin and read with the blood of Crows. The thoughts are mine. Every sight. Every word. Every pain. Every waking moment. Every dream. Every death. I remember and so it is written in the Archives and when destruction comes I remember and so it is written again._

There was blood welling up from the tips of the claws. It wasn’t his blood, the Archivist hadn’t broken his skin.

_I did once. To all of you. Sleeping children, carving lines with ink and coming away blood. The knowledge of the Crows is in the Archives, the Archives are held by the Archivist, and the Archivist knows all._

It wasn’t a pat saying any longer. The world dropped out from under his feet, or maybe he’d stepped off into the sky. Kendra’s words made sense now. You could not fight the Archivist because the Archivist knew your thoughts. It would be not there whenever you reached for it, tried to stab it. It would know any traps or ambushed laid for it. Because blood magic had been written into the _compradi_ and graduation tattoos, and he’d been wearing the first for a quarter-century now.

The Archivist knew everything. There was no plot that was not known. No hiding place, no treacherous thought.

Nowhere to run. How could anyone get away, how had _he_ -

_I was not asked._

Mahendra had repeated his words back at him because the Archivist had known what he’d thought on the rooftop in Rialto. It knew _all_ the thoughts – all the times. The experiences. It knew-

It knew _Theron;_ it knew _everything_ he’d taken for himself and all the things he’d thought untouched by the Crows, the Crows _knew._ Anyone could have asked – anything. Anything about him, no matter how small or hidden. Who had-

_No one asked._

Why hadn’t the Archivist-

_I must be asked._

He’d killed Eoman Arainai and he’d killed the other Grandmasters. Why hadn’t-

 _I must be asked,_ the Archivist repeated. _I serve the Grandmaster. You killed Eoman Arainai. You have the Collar. The others claimed the title falsely. You have been Grandmaster and you would not return to Antiva. You do not want the Crows as they are. You would tear them down. The Archives must be protected. You will build a new House of Crows as it pleases you, and the Archives will continue onwards in your-_

Theron was not a Crow and so Theron could punch the Archivist right in it’s face. He could grab it by the front of the robe and hold it off the ground, then drop it to hold it by the arms, keeping the razor claws from mauling at his less protected areas. Theron could hold the Archivist in place, because the Archivist was small and weak and not meant for combat but for avoidance and hiding, to preserve the knowledge it gathered by carving blood magic into Ages of disposable children.

Theron could ignore it once it was in his grasp, and look over his shoulder in a silent question.

Theron held the Archivist in place as it shrieked with the knowledge of a decision made and Zevran silenced it with a knife. Shadow burst outwards from the robe for a brief moment, green flashing within the darkness, washing past Theron and dissipating as easily as smoke.

And Zevran had his knife in the withered, bone-and-skin body of a child that had possibly not seen puberty yet when someone, somewhen, had heated a crow’s skull mask of steel and pressed it against living flesh, searing skin and muscle already torn from a ripped-away lower jaw, metal binding to the skull as firmly as the hands had been stripped away to the bone where those long steel blades emerged from the wrist bones.

Theron put the long-dead child down carefully on the ground, arranging the body far more respectfully than whoever had mutilated them in the first place, creating a ghastly and inelegant form for the Knowledge spirit that had long ago settled happily into the Crows’ information hoarding.

His love took a deep, steadying breath; and Zevran gave himself a moment to do nothing more than rest his forehead on Theron’s shoulder and lean into it, praying that this would, _finally,_ be the last horrible surprise brought to light by the collapse of the House of Crows.


	16. Chapter 16

After the trip to Langcaid that was crashing Anders’s older brother Vardi’s post-marriage party, the most enthusiastic yelling and drunken singing in Alamarri that he’d had heard in a _long_ time, a hell of a lot of coin being lost on the matter of Warden constitution and immediately re-gifted to the happy couple, and then meandering tipsily back home, Alistair was faced with the reality of Theron and Zevran’s absence from the Vigil.

Because they were off to see the Crows in the Knotwood Hills. The Crows who had told them about King Maric. King Maric who they were off to avenge or save from captivity by a Tevene Magister in a totally unsanctioned-by-the-Crown-should-you-get-caught mission.

The mission that he had been put in charge of organizing and _leading;_ oh Maker.

There was _so much._

Firstly, getting to Seheron wasn’t _easy,_ especially when you had to go through the Qunari to get to it. And then they had to get _off,_ which was another problem. Ferelden had always had sea raiders, who were by and large loyal in their own way to Ferelden, but those ships weren’t meant for the Amaranthine Sea. They had a tiny navy of some larger ships, but what naval strength Ferelden had managed to accumulate since it’s founding had been destroyed by the Orlesians, and ships were expensive. Losing the one when King Maric had “died” had been a severe blow to it. Zevran had sent some letters along to foreign ports in hopes of reaching someone who could be trusted to provide their discrete and safe transportation to and from Seheron; but catching ships and captains in port could be tricky. The response could come in a week or half a year from now.

More immediate was the problem of _who._

There was going to be fighting, and if King Maric was alive, who _knew_ what state he’d be in. So, a healer to start with: Anders, obviously. They were taking the best, such as they could. Theron would have been a better fighter than him, Alistair thought, but Theron was an Arl and part of the secrecy was Anora not wanting the lords to hear about the mission and insist on accompanying it. Ferelden needed its leadership where it was.

Which made it even _more_ annoying that they had _just_ gotten the Wardens sorted, and already they were breaking with parts of it. At least it meant that he didn’t have to be somehow learning about maybe being Arl-Commander someday, because that was _inexcusable,_ that would mean-

Seheron. He had to worry about Seheron.

Other problems: fighting and possibly dealing with Tevenes, which meant they’d need people who spoke Tevene. That was the Voshai – and he couldn’t take _all_ of them, he’d pick one or two – and Fenris.

Alistair wasn’t sure exactly what to do about Fenris. On one hand, they were going to Seheron, and really needed his experience, even if it was just in relating information to them before they left. On the other hand, he wasn’t Fereldan, and this was a Fereldan mission. On the third hand, they were going to fight some Magisters, probably, and Fenris would probably _really enjoy_ that. On yet another hand – well, his left foot, if he was going to be truthful about his quantity of hands – Fenris had run away from the Imperium and would probably _really not_ want to go back.

The only thing to do was to ask, so Alistair did that. It was as awkward as he’d feared, at the beginning, but it did get better. Fenris didn’t throw him out of his little cottage, anyway. He just said he’d think about going, and that whether or not he did, he’d provide them with information about Seheron.

Which, great! Amazing! Very good!

But he knew just as well as the rest of the Vigil that Fenris and Kallian had _something_ going on, or the potential to, and from his experience with couples he wouldn’t get one without the other. Alistair wasn’t particularly averse to taking Ser Tabris, per se. But it just seemed like they’d been taking her into a lot of dangerous situations lately.

But Ser Tabris was Fereldan and proud of it. She signed on to go. Predictably, Fenris followed suit.

 _That_ left him with no excuse not to ask Marian, who immediately agreed with a slightly alarming intensity.

Which meant that _in turn_ he had to take Merrill.

Which. Blood magic. But.  

Tevinter Magisters, blood magic, they’d been there before, not too long ago. Better safe than sorry even if you were _really sorry_ afterwards?

The thing was-

Well, the _main_ thing was that blood magic.

The other thing was that they had defected Templars in the Vigil right now, and they were Fereldans, or at least some of them were. And they were going to the Imperium, to fight mages doing bad things. That was a job Templars would be _excellent_ for. It could even be a good test of their ability – the Templars at Kinloch Hold hadn’t handled demons or blood magic very well, but those were par the course for Theron’s Wardens. If the Templars were going to be Wardens, they had to be able to handle that. And live with mages without antagonizing them. _And_ not proselytize. _And_ be convinced to ignore Merrill if blood magic came up. Somehow. Maybe they’d get a miracle.   

But also to be really useful they’d have to keep taking lyrium and Alistair didn’t want them to do that for longer than they had to, because it was nasty stuff. He’d had it bad enough getting off of just the very low doses they gave those a year or less out from formerly swearing to the Order – how much worse would it be for someone like Ser Sayer, who’d been taking it for years? And any of them could _die_ trying to get off it.

But they could die from the Joining. They could die fighting on Seheron.

Maker there were no good choices. The best he could do was give them the dignity of their decisions.

Alistair called the ten Templars in residence at the Vigil together in an abandoned area by the kennels, because who didn’t like mabari?

The answer was _‘some of the Templars’_ , which Alistair felt was uncalled for.

They were a very mixed group, these Templars. The four who’d defected from the Grand Cleric had all said they wanted to be Wardens, which was something. But he had no idea what the ones from Kirkwall wanted to do, and the two from Ostwick were deserters.

“So, in case you hadn’t managed to pick up on it,” he started the meeting with. “I’m Captain Alistair Mac Maric, currently second under the Commander, and I was almost a Templar. Wardens worked out better for me. We already know what some of you want, but otherwise we have no idea where you’re going and if you need our help.”

He pointed at the two from Ostwick.

“Well, not _you_ two. We know _you_ need help.”

Most of the other Templars shot them looks.

“I’m staying with my sister,” Avrodiy Trevelyan said. “And Vex.”

Sasha Winsome shrugged.

“I mean, same. Can’t leave Irina.”

“And Irina wants what?”

“You’d have to ask her,” Avrodiy told him.

Not useful.

“Ser Thrask?”

“I safeguarded my charges away from the violence of Kirkwall,” the older man said. “My plan was always to return to the Chantry.”

Most of his fellows from Kirkwall nodded in agreement, but Alistair noticed one who didn’t seem comfortable with that.

“All right,” Alistair said. “If you want to return to the Chantry, I suggest you go see Lady Stockard-”

No, wait, there was something better.

“Actually, forget I said that. Sister Nightingale hasn’t left just yet. Best to catch her now before she heads back to Denerim.”

All the Kirkwall Templars but one set off to find the Left Hand of the Divine.

“Yes?” Alistair asked the one who remained, and eyebrow arched.

“I, um. What if you’re… not sure you want to go back?” he asked. “Are you- do you have other options?”

“Why don’t you want to go back?”

“It wasn’t- Commander Stannard was-”

He looked sort of ill thinking about it.

“There were blood mages,” he said. “Demons. I almost- they’re not supposed to get Templars, but- I just needed the job, the money. Macha never made much. And now we’ve lost everything anyway.”

“The Wardens are always looking for recruits,” Alistair told him. The Templar dropped his eyes, and the next words were very quiet.

“Pardon, Captain ser, but Macha and me, we ran from the Bannorn when-”

He couldn’t bring himself to continue. Alistair understood.

“Maybe…” he said, thinking. “How do you feel about mages and magic?”

“They exist. They-”

The reluctant Templar’s eyes were wide.

“The bad ones, they’re _real_ bad. But it was the Templars who were going to kill me. Because of the bad ones.”

“Rather not go back to a Circle?” Alistair asked. It was answered with a firm nod. “What’s your name?”

“Keran, Captain ser. Keran Innsey.”

“Why don’t you go see Sister Eileen in town?” Alistair suggested. “There’s only the one Chantry there, and it’s small, but Keep Town’s just been incorporated. There’ll be a lot more people coming, and the Chantry could use a guard.”

Keran looked very relieved.

“I will ser, thank you ser,” he said, and went off to do just that.

Alistair was left with the Grand Cleric defectors and the Ostwick deserters- Sayer, Marchant, Funke, Elster, Trevelyan, and Winsome.

“I know you said you’re staying with Irina and-?”

“Vex,” Sasha Winsome provided. “Uh. Avexis.”

“Right,” Alistair said. “But here’s the thing. You’re _deserters._ And your friends are apostates. _Run-away_ apostates. You don’t have a lot of options here that don’t end up in a lot of trouble.”

Avrodiy’s chin was set stubbornly. It made him look something like Maxwell- he was tempted to ask how they were related, but now wasn’t the time.

“We knew that when we left,” he said, a certain fire Alistair recognized in his eyes. Not from Maxwell, this. This was more Theron than anything. “But Avexis has- she had protection. She told us, something about the Seekers and the Chantry and a cult. But they were sending her to _Kirkwall_ anyway. We sent a letter off to the Lord Seeker when we heard but it came back with an _admonition_ about _‘minding our place’_ and they’d taken her off that morning.”

“So you just went for it.”

“Yesser,” Avrodiy said without a hint of remorse or second thoughts on the matter. “Avexis had a _promise,_ Lord-Captain, and the Chantry broke it first.”

“The vows we took were to protect mages from threat, protect the faithful from mages who would use their magic against them, and to serve the Chantry,” Sasha said. “Kirkwall is a threat to Vex. The Chant says a lot about maleficar but she’s not one. The Circles were made so mages can learn and use magic in safety.”

“The _Circles_ were made because Divine Ambrosia I got pissed that mages the Chantry had been _imprisoning_ for doing magic _at all_ had the _gall_ to protest against being only allowed to – _forced to_ – keep the eternal flames lit in the Chantries!”

Alistair focused on a point somewhere off over Ser Marchant’s head and did _not_ sigh, thank you very much.

“Anders, I’m trying to have a _conversation._ ”

“And _I’m_ correcting half-truths! The Circles were a damned _‘compromise’,_ Alistair! _‘We won’t kill you for doing magic if you do it constantly under watch and we can kill you if we want to and you do it in prison fortresses and we can steal children who show magical ability from their families and never allow mages to have any of their own’_!”

“How did you even-”

“Templars start purposefully walking about and you think I _wouldn’t_ notice it?” Anders demanded.

“How are you even always where you _know_ these things?”

That earned him an unimpressed look.

“I had my choice of buildings,” Anders said. “I picked the one where I can see _everyone_ who passes through the bailey. Nobody goes in or out of the Vigil, or in or out of the keep _or_ the servants’ housing, that I don’t have the opportunity to see.”

Ser Sayer coughed discreetly.

“Hello again, Mage-Captain,” he said politely.

Anders leaned on his staff.

“I _distinctly_ remember you being told why lyrium and darkspawn don’t mix, so you should stay away from the Wardens.”

“I was never told I wasn’t allowed to join,” Ser Sayer countered. “I do appreciate the warning. But the Grand Cleric is… well. And with what happened at Kirkwall. I don’t much like the way things are looking, none of us do. There’s not a Blight, but if lyrium can get infected by it, someone has to handle that. The Chantry clearly isn’t.”

Ser Marchant gently pushed one of the junior Templars forward.

“I – Kitt Funke, sers,” she said nervously. “I’ve not been a Templar even a month now. My first assignment was Kirkwall under Knight-Commander Stannard, and I’d only been there two weeks when – things weren’t right before that, sers. But I _never_ want something like red lyrium again. If the Wardens can do something about it, this is where I want to be. Not at some Circle or Chantry doing ashes-all about it, just waiting for the next disaster.”

“I was _here_ for the Blight,” Ser Marchant said. “Commander Greagoir sent a handful of us off to alert the Chantries north instead of going back with the rest to Kinloch Hold, so I wasn’t there for that. But I fought darkspawn, and I saved some people if I could, and it was its own sort of living hell. I’m not sure if it would have been worse to be at the Circle instead of in the Bannorn, but at least in the Bannorn I could _do_ something. Even if it didn’t work. I went back to the Circle after the Battle of Denerim. I was the only one of us that Commander Greagoir sent out who did. I haven’t seen red lyrium but if there’s ways to keep saving people from _that,_ well.”

She crossed her arms.

“At least if you get possessed by a demon _you’re_ still there, somewhere. If one snags you, you can fight it off. I’ve been telling senior recruits that for six years now. But there’s no coming back from darkspawn.”  

“And what about you, Templar Elster?” Alistair asked the other junior Templar, the only one who hadn’t spoken yet.

“Well,” she answered, and shifted from foot to foot. “What they said.”

Anders snorted. Alistair really hoped that it was in response to Elster’s incredible lack of enthusiasm rather than everything that had just been said.

“Here’s the thing,” Alistair said, not giving Anders a chance to cut in. Just in case. “We take just about anybody here. If you want to join the Wardens, we’re not going to turn you away. But there’s things you need to know first. One – the actual ritual of Joining the Wardens can kill you. It’s fatal more often than not. There’s a reason so many people flocked to us after the Blight but there aren’t very many of us still. You’re allowed to decide you’ve changed your mind about Joining right up until the ritual itself. You _cannot_ walk away after that. We won’t let you. You either leave a Warden or leave dead – and once you’re a Warden, you’re a Warden until it kills you. _And it will._ In twelve hundred and thirty years, no Warden has _ever_ died of old age.”

He waited a moment to let that sink in. You could back out of Templar training right up until you’d finished your vows, so long as you hadn’t finished the last word yet. People didn’t usually, and it was frowned upon, but you could. Even after you were a Templar proper, _technically_ you could leave the Order to become a Brother or Sister, but again, it didn’t happen often. Usually it was in response to some particularly bad personal crisis. And of course, you could get kicked out of the Order. You’d probably die from lyrium withdrawal or end up entangled in some _really_ nasty Carta business that would get you killed eventually, but you still wouldn’t be a Templar any longer.

“This sounds like trying to make us walk away, Lord-Captain,” Ser Sayer said.

“The Commander has _very firm_ feelings about people understanding what they’re getting into if they want to be a Warden,” Alistair said. “As much as you _can_ understand without being a Warden already. I know what taking lyrium does to you and what a Templar’s older years are like, and I decided that being a Warden was better than _that._ But you _will_ live longer as a Templar. The longest anyone’s ever lived after becoming a Warden is thirty years. Usually we say someone’s had a long run if someone manages twenty. A couple weeks after I Joined, a senior Warden died after eleven. The others talked like she likely wouldn’t have had many more past that.”

They were six years past the Blight and the story was that Blight Wardens died faster and he was not, no, absolutely not, they were _better_ than that. Theron was better than that.

Alistair looked at the younger Templars.

“If you don’t join, in twenty years you could be Knight-Lieutenants somewhere, or even Knight-Captains,” he told them. “Maybe have command of a region of Chantries. Either way, you’ll still have plenty of time before the lyrium catches up to you. Darkspawn catch up a lot quicker.”

They didn’t look comfortable, but they weren’t walking away just yet.

“Two, and this one only applies because you’re Templars – you can’t be taking lyrium and do the Joining ritual. You have to be off it. Two months.”

“Oh,” Templar Funke said quietly. “Um – why?”

“I’m told something really awful happens to you if you do the ritual and you’re not clean of lyrium,” Alistair said. “I’m not actually sure what it is. But given what we’ve found out… I’d say the first Templar who tried to join probably ended up something like Commander Stannard.”

“Can we take it again after?” Ser Sayer asked.

“I… have no idea,” Alistair admitted. “I never went back to it, but I’d only had the introduction doses. Having too much lyrium around makes me feel sick, and I’m really sensitive to it if it’s not a mage’s lyrium potion, but I don’t actually crave it. I’ve only taken lyrium once since Joining, and it was- um-”

“It was the _stupidest_ thing I’ve ever seen anyone do!” Anders snapped at him. “And I _know_ some people!”

“It was important.”

“And you’re never fucking doing it again,” Anders told him before turning his attention to the Templars. “ _Look._ If you decide to Join – or don’t! And just want to fuck off from the Chantry and not take lyrium any longer! – I’m a spirit healer, and we’ve got other mages who can help, and the Wardens will keep you away from lyrium. We’re going to have _problems_ if you can’t get over certain attitudes and ideas, but I’m a _healer_ and I’m not going to _not_ help you because of it. I’ll argue with you forever and a day and some things _will_ get you in trouble – and there’s shit you can pull that _will_ get you kicked out like the Commander did the Grand Cleric –  but if I can keep you from dying I will. Anyway, if you survive all this, I’ll be one of your superior officers and it’ll be a completely different game.”

“I cannot believe they put _you_ in charge of anything,” Ser Marchant said; and suddenly Alistair remembered that she’d been posted at Kinloch Hold and _Anders_ was from Kinloch Hold.

“Go _fuck_ yourself, _Rosslyn!_ ”

“This is _not_ the _point!_ ” Alistair interrupted them, and tried to imitate one of Anders’s angry glares to get them both to leave off. “The _point –_ trying to get off lyrium could kill you, and trying to join the Wardens could kill you, and being a Warden _will_ kill you. So, you know. Think about that before you start the process? There’s some time before you can start, anyway.”

“Oh?” Ser Sayer asked, and Alistair was very grateful for him. He and Anders had no history, as far as he could tell.

“There’s a long-term mission Anders is going on,” Alistair said, and Anders shot _him_ a look, now. He knew what they’d been told about speaking on this. “Me too. Some… number of Wardens. Which is the _other_ thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“You’re not allowed to talk about this,” Anders put in. “To _anyone._ It is _absolutely_ secret. If it gets out and you’re responsible for it, it’s not the Commander’s forgiveness you’ll have to deal with.”

Alistair lowered his voice.

“We’re going on a mission to Seheron, against a Magister. _Absolutely_ secret, like the Mage-Captain just said. We’re not _supposed_ to be on Seheron acting as the instrument of justice against a Magister, so that’s _not_ what we’re going to be doing. You understand me?”

“And this is… Warden business?” Ser Sayer asked delicately.

“It’s _important_ business,” Alistair replied. “So, this is absolutely not required, this thing we are not doing is strictly volunteers only, feel free to refuse. This has absolutely no bearing on becoming or not becoming a Warden, besides something I sort of don’t want to ask you to do, because specifically I’m bringing this up with all of you is because, you know, _Magisters._ This one’s pretty awful, probably. The last really awful Magister we fought is the reason the Mage-Captain is going to yell at me about lyrium ingestion for the rest of our lives. So, lyrium is _really_ nasty stuff, and I don’t _actually_ want to be asking you to keep taking it for longer than you have to – or _want_ to, I guess – but the thing is actual Templars who can do actual Templar things would be really nice to have along for this mission we are totally not doing because it would be a real political disaster if we did. And, I mean, _also_ if you _do_ decide you want to become a Warden then it’s one more thing I’ve – we’ve – asked of you that might kill you and for most people it’s just the _one_ thing and it’s _not fair_ and I’m _sorry._ ”

He took a breath.

“You don’t have to agree. I mean it.”

“Well,” Avrodiy said after a few moments. “I need to talk to my sister.”

“I will consider this,” Ser Sayer said, and Ser Marchant motioned for their junior Templars to step away to talk, and, well, this all that Alistair could really ask of them.

So: healer, check. Warriors: Wardens by and large, also Ser Tabris and Marian Amell-Hawke-he needed-to-ask-which and maybe Templars, check. Assistance with Seheron: Fenris and some manner of Voshai, check. Mages: …well, Anders and Merrill, and maybe they could find some others somewhere? Pending. Rogues: shit.

This was essentially a breaking-and-entering mission and they only had Nathaniel and _maybe_ a Voshai or two.

They needed sneaky people. Usually Zevran was the sneaky person but he was going to be _here_ with Theron because there was Dalish diplomacy and the Queen and now the Crows-

Well, that was a thought. Maybe they could borrow some Crows.

* * *

Theron knew that he was one of the few people to use _‘Satheraan’_ when speaking to his fiancé, but he hadn’t thought there was so much of a difference. _‘Satheraan’_ was his Dalish name; _‘Zevran’_ was his not-Dalish name. He knew very well that _‘Zevran Arainai’_ was not the same person as _‘Zevran Revasina’_ , but _‘Satheraan Nehna Revasina’_ and _‘Zevran Revasina’_ were much the same person. Theron would have counted his fiancé as two people, if pressed into philosophy on the matter of identity.

But it was painfully obvious, as the refugee Crows tried to interact with him, with his _sal’shiral_ was taking on and putting off parts of himself with near every heartbeat, every breath, that Theron had miscounted. The Crows tried to approach him as _‘Zevran Arainai’_ and were met by _‘Zevran Revasina’_. _‘Zevran Revasina’_ was quickly two different people again – in interaction with Anora, _‘Messere Revasina’_ , the courtier, the man who would be High Lord of the Arl of Amaranthine; when momentarily drawing Theron into conversation, what he thought of as simply _‘Zevran’_ , how he always was.

Theron had thought that court-Zevran and Vigil-Zevran was a matter of Zevran being at court or not, but – well, it wasn’t. They weren’t at court here, but everything about court-Zevran was still there. With Anora it made sense, she was Queen; but it was with some of the other Crows, too. They’d say _‘Grandmaster’_ and he’d refuse and courtier at them instead, with a cushioning edge of careful caution on his phrasing and movements, meant to coax the others slowly towards a kind of trust.

But then there was _more._ When someone tried to press him on the Crows, and kept pushing, he started looking like Antiva and Rosso Noche. He was _‘Mahar Desoto’_ when he snapped about slavery and kept Tiar and Diego close, Crows melting away in an ingrained reaction to authority’s temper.

Zevran fell back on gentle coaxing and _‘Mahar Desoto’_ was gone. There was someone – some name Theron couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t so far away as _‘Zevran Arainai’_ , but it was someone who could be enough like a Crow to be like him. But it wasn’t _‘Mahar Desoto’_. It didn’t make sense. Maybe it _was ‘Zevran Arainai’_ after all?

But it wasn’t. It hadn’t been. _‘Zevran Arainai’_ was someone not allowed here, because-

Kendra had taken them into the Caer, and was showing them around, on Zevran’s request. They’d brought the treasury, and that was where they’d gone first, to the gold and jewelry and precious objects and whatever else was lost in the deep chests of treasure hidden in the underground rooms of the Caer. They were being led back upstairs when the _smell-_

Excrement. Blood. Rot. Filth, the sort of battlefields held in the days after a slaughter and the Deep Roads had soaked into the stones.

Theron changed course. The tips of Zevran’s fingers just brushed his sleeve as he reached to pull him back.

“Theron-!”

“What _is_ that?” he asked. “Have you been dumping your trash and sewage down here? That’s not good for you, it will just concentrate and spread around to _everywhere._ People will get sick.”

“It’s the children, Your Arlship Commander,” Kendra answered him.

Theron stopped.

 “There isn’t enough to feed them and us,” she continued. “They’re nothing, yet. The other old strongrooms were the most secure.”

They were-

Kendra paused, almost short enough that he didn’t noticed, and added: “If any live, they’re good enough to be Crow apprentices.”

- _children_ -

“If any live, they’re good enough to be Crow apprentices,” Kendra repeated, shifting anxiously. As she spoke, her words came faster and faster, as if they could outrun- what? That _truth?_ “If they all die, we get more; they’re cheap, we won’t spend much, we’ll have plenty to train – and live ones, they’ll be strong enough, they’ll be better than we were, we don’t have any food _to_ poison to give them but they’ve plenty of incentive to go after each other and they’ll have learned about death and the value of trust and everything they needed to, they’ll know how you have to survive, have to kill, with only each other for fo-”

 _“Kendra!”_ Zevran barked, and she fell silent; and in that moment, Theron understood.

The words came quickly not to run from the truth but to convince, to defend. The way Kendra spoke. The way no Crows had tried to interfere with the Archivist, had stayed out of arm’s reach afterwards. How the Crows who were- _on guard_ down here, not against the children but to protect the _money-_ did not meet his eyes.

Kendra had obeyed Zevran, but she had tried to convince _him,_ because he-

The difference between knowing in the mind and in the soul was always strong, stark and terrifying in retrospect.

Theron was Dalish. He was free, had not grown up in a city, or as a slave, or around Antivans. He knew this was not his place; and these were not his people.

But now he _knew,_ because Kendra had tried to justify, to explain. Not out of defense of any morals or ideals. Out of defense of herself. She had seen him react and had expected him to _hurt her,_ because things were – not up to standard. Not as they had been in Antiva.

Not as they had been _for Zevran;_ for his _sal’shiral_ whose people these other Crows _were._ He had been born and grown to adulthood in Antiva, but he was not Antivan.

Zevran was a Crow in the same way Theron was Dalish. Theron could be named exile. He could walk away. He could never see another of the clans again and it hurt to think but Theron knew it could never stop him from _being Dalish._

He would always _understand_ being Dalish and Zevran would _always understand being a Crow._

Crows knew slow and tortured death by smell and would not mistake it for sewage; Dalish knew the sounds of halla and would never mistake one for a farm goat.

Crows were not surprised to find children abandoned to starve to death for a lack of current commodity; Dalish would not be surprised to find a clan’s adults starving to feed the children in hard times.

Crows expected their masters’ infliction of pain for deviation from procedure; Dalish expected humans’ violence for their continued existence.

Crows- Dalish- _Crows-_

Born and raised or the next best thing in the Crows, they all were, and they lived and died in the Crows and there were rules, how to behave, how to think, and an understanding, _this was how the world worked,_ and they had their own stories, their own expectations, their own heroes – this was a _people,_ a culture as much as the Dalish were, and how were they supposed to _understand_ if – if _he_ tried to think about the Dalish being completely wrong about everything, he couldn’t – and he’d had a hard enough time, getting the humans – _Andrasteans_ – he’d spent the Blight with to understand even the _least_ bit about the Dalish and Alistair and Zevran only kept up as well as they did because they kept _working_ at it because they were his _family_ and what motivation did the _Crows_ have to listen-

“Theron.”

Zevran’s fingers were gentle on his face.

“Theron, look at me. Breathe. The children will be taken care of. Cleaned. Fed. And we would do best to take them with us when we leave, I think. They will _not be hurt like this_ any longer.”

“They’re all-” Theron gasped. “It starts like that. For _all of them. You._ And then keeps going. They’re all. Crows are a _people._ It’s all- it’s all- from the _beginning._ And-”

He tried to take a deep breath, past the threatening tears and congestion, and clutched Zevran’s sleeves. Zevran was telling someone that: _‘his empathy has gotten the better of him’_ , but Theron was too focused on _this_ to know who he was speaking to.

Zevran was stroking his hair.

“Yes?” he said uncertainly. “There are lifetimes of hurt here.”

“I knew but I didn’t _know-_ ”

“Ah. Yes.”

“How- they all need- I- how-”

The heels of Zevran’s hands pressed into his temples.

“ _Theron._ This is not your responsibility. No! – I know you are about to say something, _stop._ We have _had_ this conversation. What has already been done, you cannot change. What _is_ happening, is _not your fault. Stop._ You are not responsible for _this,_ you are not responsible for the future. You have duties for your people and the Arling and the Wardens and Ferelden, _not for this._ ”

“They need-”

“Stop.”

“But-”

“No.”

“They need help I _can’t not help_ it would be wrong if I can help I _have to_ or I didn’t do enough and if I did enough-”

“No.”

“You should be happy and safe _they_ should be happy and safe if I don’t help _I’m_ hurting-”

 _“Stop,”_ Zevran ordered him. “Your reasoning is faulty and I love you and your care is generally an admirable thing but I _cannot_ help the Crows _and_ handle one of your moral crises, in this moment. All right? They need me, and they have no one else. I need you to handle yourself for now, or repeat yourself in Trade to Rosaire or the Queen and have one of _them_ help you.”

Theron hadn’t been conscious of speaking El’vhen.

“ _Please,_ Theron. You are right that much needs doing, but it is many many problems all connected, and is very big, and with any of it there will always be room for improvement but-”

He sighed. It was through his teeth, frustrated.

“No. No, _I_ cannot, not now. Speak with Rosaire and work out why you are wrong, or- if you would like something more immediate, you have Fen. The children need to be fed. Someone must get food, and with a mabari, large game is possible.”

He could do that. Hunting wasn’t particularly one of Theron’s talents, but Zevran was right. With Fen, his work would mostly be not ruining a hunt, and bringing back whatever was caught.

He could do that.

* * *

Kendra had been even more skittish after he’d sent Theron off and given orders for the Crows to clean the children up and have them ready for his fiancé when he came back with food. Rosaire had been anxiously sticking to the Queen, and _she’d_ been watching Zevran like she wished to have a conversation, and Zevran had been distracted the entire way to where the Archives were being kept, trying to hold onto his composure while ingrained reactions told him to _run, they saw you, **run.**_

 _No,_ he’d told himself. _It is not something you wish to do, speaking about this. But she will ask, and you **can** tell her. You told her about Kirkwall. She likes you._

The Archives were meant to be a steadying breath, a break from the repeated reminders of Crow… everything.

But the Archivist’s assistants, now the only Crows who knew how the records were kept and organized, were Tranquil, because _of course they were._

He’d sent Kendra away once the Tranquil had finished describing the contents of the Archives. There were a few heavy wooden tables spread throughout the rooms currently used to house the Archives, brought all the way from Antiva City, and he’d collapsed at the nearest one once she was gone. No one else in the room needed his composure, since the only Crows here now were-

“I truly thought,” he said aloud, head in his hands, voice muffled. “That the Crows sent any children they took who showed magic to the Chantry. Or perhaps killed them. But no, that would be stupid, and _I_ feel stupid, because that would be a waste of money. _Of course_ they would find some way to use them.”

He wanted Theron, but it was better that he was somewhere else right now.

“I dislike what I have seen so far,” Anora remarked, after a few moments of silence. Zevran thought _‘dislike’_ was probably not strong enough for what she was thinking.

“You see why I have come back.”

“Do you have further need of the Archive?” one of the Tranquil asked. Like all the others, her voice was dry and scratchy, weak with disuse.

He looked up at her.

“Who are you?”

The Tranquil stood there and stared. After a long lull, he tried again.

“Your name?”

There were a further few seconds of staring before he got a response.

“The question does not make sense.”

“What do I call you?”

“This is the Archive.”

“Yes, but if I am speaking to _you._ If I wish to have your assistance, or otherwise address you, what do I call you?”

“If you have a request for information, Grandmaster, the Archive will provide.”

“But what are _you_ called?”

“The question does not make sense.”

Zevran stopped pressing. He felt he had the shape of the problem now, and he had no idea if this was even something that could be fixed.

“I want a complete accounting of the coinage in the treasury,” he told the Tranquil. “And the full list of those who have come to this place, organized by graduated Crows, apprentices, unhoused children, and… support staff, such as yourself. For the graduated Crows, I would also have a complete accounting of the value of the contracts they have fulfilled, and what money they have actually received.”

“This information will be provided,” the Tranquil said, and left.

Zevran glanced around and selected another Tranquil, a slight man engaged in nothing but standing against a wall. He looked directly at the man and said: “You.”

There was no response. Zevran was certain he’d been heard – and besides that, _seen._ But it wasn’t until he got up and stood directly before the Tranquil that he was acknowledged.

Maybe one of the ex-Circle mages in the Wardens would have some idea of how to explain to the Archives’ Tranquils that they were discreet individuals.

“I want the debt record of Nina Rivasina, for the death of Adan Escipo. As well, bring to the table any information saved for use against the Crown of Ferelden.”

“Do you think I could…?” Rosaire ventured, when Zevran returned to the table.

“I think it would depend on what you want to know.”

Rosaire got the attention of another Tranquil and was happily led off to whatever the Archives had on _“the Dalish, or Dales before the Exalted March. Or Arlathan?”_ , leaving he and Anora alone at the table. Zevran waited for her to broach whatever topic she had isolated them for.

“As a politician,” she began. “As Queen. If I were to discuss the existence of this, the Archives and the Crows, on Fereldan soil, fled from Antiva, I would no doubt be advised to seize it for our own use.”

“I would not have them fled Antiva to be slaves elsewhere.”

“There is that. But this is still the House of Crows, or such as it is now. I would not have them go elsewhere and be available for use against us. I cannot assume that there are not other Crows who fled Antiva of their own accord, and have been, or will be, acquired by others. From everything I know, the only feasible deterrent to a Crow is another Crow.” She paused. “Or a Warden, but for counter-spying, or keeping watch against a more violent objective…”

“I am sure that _somewhere,_ there is a Warden who can be subtle,” Zevran said. “But I take your point. _Still-_ ”

“I would pay them.”

“But that does _not_ change that they do not have a conception that they _can_ do otherwise! I ran away to the Dalish when I was sixteen, and then went back; and if not for that experience and Theron’s-”

He gestured vaguely.

“-during the Blight, not even that year would have been enough for me to truly conceive of a life beyond what I had been trained for. Even _with_ that, it took until near the end of it all, and it was still founded on more trust of Theron and what felt like foundationless hope rather than true understanding.”

“So you’d have them wait years until they know better?”

“I don’t want to make their decisions for them,” Zevran told her, frustrated. “I would not _control_ them. But I cannot just let them go because they will be _used!_ Even-”

He scowled at the far end of the table.

“Even?” Anora prompted.

“I expect Theron to recruit,” he told her. “It may only be a comment about the Wardens being open, but that would be enough. Wardens are paid regularly, and fairly. They are provided for. The Wardens protect their own, and that security will be hard to refuse – I don’t know for how many, but I worry. One does not understand what being a Warden truly means until they are one. Or perhaps until you have been in the Deep Roads proper. The mortality has been the main deterrent for people joining Theron’s Wardens, but-”

Zevran snorted.

“-Wardens are safer than Crows. You can die horribly as either one, but the Wardens do not need to be on guard against _each other._ They do not use torture for punishment, and they are not killed for failure. With the command structure, the inherent violence, needing to follow orders – it will be familiar enough, but so much _kinder._ ”

“Your fiancé _hardly_ needs Warden Crows,” Anora said, the words sharply displeased.

“But we’re so good at killing things,” Zevran replied with a flippant smile, quickly gone.

“You would not leave them in the care of your fiancé,” Anora said. “You wouldn’t have them beholden to me. You wouldn’t let them out into the world for fear of what might happen to them; but you’re scared of _keeping_ them, too. I fail to see how you plan to improve things.”

“Given the choice,” he told her. “I would rather they be employed by you, or be Wardens under Theron, than telling them they are free and letting them fend for themselves. I would – find them good employment, and homes, and community.”

“You can’t promise them that.”

“I _know._ ”

He hated how much he sounded like Theron, but at least _he_ was aware that he couldn’t make everything better.

…but there was something to Theron’s certainty that if he could only _find it,_ there was a way to fix every problem. Zevran could wish for some of that confidence in the outcome, though the anxiety that also plagued Theron over not being _‘good enough’_ was something he could do without.

“Can they even be trained for another profession?”

He wanted to tell her that _of course_ they could, but – he hadn’t really learned a new _trade,_ only applied his existing skills differently. And there was the question of who would apprentice adults who didn’t have a grasp on how the world worked outside the Crows. They needed patience and understanding and help and support, and how could he find anyone willing and able to take on that much more work with an apprentice beyond teaching them a trade?

The children and those who were currently apprentices, at least, would be easier to place. Still not _easily,_ but easier.

“Ferelden does not have need of assassins,” Anora said. “Agents who can break-and-enter, or otherwise gather information and secrets, yes. I can think of ways to use them as security, or scouts for the army, or ways to employ them at court. But if there are Crows who are only good at _killing,_ I think you would be well advised to leave them to the Wardens.”

Zevran sighed, and went through the different specializations of Crow training in his head.

“The Artificers have skills easy to turn to apothecary or mechanical work. The courtesans – court employment, as you said. There are plenty of simple assassins who specialize in taking contracts that require more stealth, or reconnaissance, or work at a distance, than brute force. And I suppose that even those who did not specialize as such would be quite good, comparatively, than others you could hire. _But,_ what I have said still stands.”

“Do you not trust me?” Anora demanded.

“I trust you to do well by Ferelden,” Zevran told her. “That you will protect your country and your people, and provide for them, and make them better whenever possible. I trust that you will stand by your friends and allies. But any time there is one with power over another, and _especially_ when the one with less is not secure in themselves, there is the possibility for exploitation. I like you and I respect you, my Queen, and I can think of many things in which I would be glad to serve you; but I cannot say what you would do if there was a question between exploiting any of these people for the benefit of Ferelden, or your own security.”

She drummed a finger on the table.

“As Grandmaster, if you told them not to obey me, they would not. If you told them not to serve me, they would not.”

“Likely so, yes.”

“I dislike the idea of employing those who have a greater loyalty than me,” Anora said. “But what _I_ have said still stands. Leaving them to serve others is distasteful and foolish.”

“Then we have an issue in negotiation.”

There were a few moments of thought.

“I have no plans nor desire to work against you.”

“That can change,” Anora said. “What wouldn’t you do, to protect him?”

“I wish to say that there are some things,” Zevran replied. “But as I think that, I can conceive of scenarios where I cannot say that I might not do something I otherwise wouldn’t. Afterwards, I could regret the necessity, but I would never regret having him.”

“If it was a choice between the two of us.”

“I would strive for both of you.”

“But if you couldn’t.”

“I couldn’t say,” Zevran told her. “Without a specific situation, and without the choice being _immediate,_ without time to deliberate – I cannot say. There is a part of me that is convinced that of course I would choose Theron, no matter the circumstance; but there is another that holds out for my ability to decide based on other’s wishes or a greater need; and yet another that believes I would freeze, unable to make such a choice, and lose you both.”

“Zevran Revasina, you would be wasted on any other monarch.”

“I’m certain I could serve well.”

“They would not be thankful for your honesty,” Anora said. “You could play the Game at Val Royeaux and Halamshiral adeptly, but none of them would ever be open enough to learn the things I have of you.”

“Perhaps. I will say, I appreciate the general lack of distrust at yours. And you have been generous and kind.”

“I would continue so,” Anora told him. “I don’t want Crows working for me when they would consider your word above mine. You don’t want to leave them at anyone else’s mercy. Could we trust each other’s intentions enough for you to be the middleman?”

This was different.

“Oh?”

“In Antiva, did the Grandmasters not negotiate on behalf of the House as a whole?”

“It wasn’t a common occurrence,” Zevran said.

“Then my proposition is this: I let the Crows settle in Ferelden. In return, jobs I have that I want Crows for are considered ahead of any other work you take on.”

“I have not been planning on continuing to sell assassinations. If, individually, they wish to continue in the work, I will not stop them. But I have no wish to become a clearinghouse for death.”

“And how will they be supported, then?”

He didn’t have answer ready for that. He wasn’t sure he had an answer at all. There was a lot of money at Caer Dughlean – he didn’t know how much yet, but Zevran felt comfortable in his estimate that it could provide for everyone who had come from Antiva for some time. Hopefully long enough to get them on their feet, and ready to live in the world.

But if it wasn’t…

“I let the Crows settle in Ferelden,” Anora said. “On… similar terms to the Wardens. The House of Crows will have the right to some portion of taxes in exchange for their service in protecting Ferelden. Rather than fighting darkspawn, it would be in service to the Crown, in the ways already discussed. Just as the Warden-Commander could refuse me if I asked for something the Wardens were unable to provide, because of incapability or ideological incompatibility, so could the Grandmaster. Again as with the Wardens, it would be expected that the Crows do not work against Ferelden.”

“That would be an entirely fair contract,” Zevran said. “Except for that I mean to lose the title of Grandmaster as soon as possible, and dissolve the Crows along with it. I have no wish to maintain the Crows as they are, much less _perpetuate_ them.”

“As they have been, I would entirely agree,” Anora said. “But _you_ have the power now. Why not change how things are done? Would there be _any reason,_ if the Crows accepted only volunteers for training and dealt fairly with their people, _not_ to continue?”

“I will not do it. I will see the Crows dissolved.”

“Will they _let_ you? Do they _want_ to renounce the House of Crows?”

Salvail hadn’t wanted to.

“You said you’re worried they will go to the Wardens because the similarities will be comforting in comparison to simply going out into the world. People like what is familiar and comfortable, Messere Revasina, and they are more likely to fight to keep it than let it go. I see no reason why the Crows could _not_ be changed into something kinder, other than your own conviction.”

“I _will not be a Crow._ ”

“Even if they were something you could be proud – or at least not ashamed and angry – to be a part of? If the Crows could not be changed, I would agree with you, and I would not be pressing this. But they _could_ be something different, and I’d want you to be leading it.”

“No.”

“Let me make it clearer, then,” Anora said. “If _you_ are not managing the Crows, the only way I will tolerate them is if they are completely beholden to me.”

He was not going to glare at the Queen. It would be impolitic.

“I trust _you_ with the Crows,” she said. “With you, I am comfortable being very lenient about their role and services. I don’t know any of them, and I wouldn’t trust any one of them who would take your place. You are Grandmaster, or I control them, or I seize their assets and turn them out of the country, where they will have to fend for themselves without your presence or influence.”

* * *

The safest place to be was with Messere Revasina, but the Arl-Commander was leaving. He was good at not dying, they knew that, but he was…

The word would have been _‘soft’_ , because he certainly couldn’t take a Crow’s lifestyle, but he had also slaughtered his way through a Blight and Antiva City. _‘Too emotional’_ was probably it.

The Crows shouldn’t attack him because he was Messere Revasina’s fiancé, and what they knew of him was that he was Grandmaster, and you didn’t cross the Grandmaster. But he was also still just one person, and it wasn’t like they _knew_ what every single Crow was thinking, or might do.

And he’d need help, probably. It hadn’t been that long since they’d run from the Crows, but the Arl-Commander was focused on the children, and he wouldn’t know how to handle any of it, to anticipate where things could go. _They_ still knew.

“They’ll be sick,” Tiar said quietly to Diego. They shared a look, and then split away from the group. Diego was off to the poisoners’ stores for herbs, and Tiar shadowed the Arl-Commander and his dog out of the run-down castle and into the woods.

It wasn’t fair how he could be quieter in a forest in plate armor than she could be without any. She knew she’d been heard when he dropped back, letting his dog range into the trees without him. They walked together for a time, the silence stretching as Tiar expected him to go back to talking to himself in his own language under his breath, words angry and hurt.

He never did. His eyes kept sliding back to her, and then away, until Tiar caught his eyes and kept looking at him after his eyes flicked away.

The Arl-Commander stopped, so she did as well. Again, she waited for him to say something; and again, he didn’t.

He grabbed her into a hug instead. Tiar caught herself before she attacked him on reflex, and made herself breathe the way Messere Revasina had told her about. The Arl-Commander hadn’t done something like this before. He’d never ignored them, but he’d left her and Diego to his fiancé.

He was being emotional, she finally decided. Messere Revasina treated hugging as something to do to make people feel better, and he loved this man, so… she should hug him back.

It was nothing like hugging Messere Revasina. The Arl-Commander let her go a few moments later, and stepped back. His expression was drawn and his eyes were red when he quietly told her: “Sorry.”

Tiar eyed him, waiting for an elaboration, but there wasn’t one. He just took a deep breath instead, and wiped his eyes.

“Do you know how to set traps?”

She’d had plenty of Crow training. Had he forgotten Mistress Revasina’s room?

“Of course.”

“Not for people,” he said. “For hunting.”

Tiar wouldn’t have thought there was much difference.

“…No.”

“Okay,” he said. “All right. I’ll have to teach you. And others. They need to eat. I’ve never been good at hunting. But I’m all right at trapping.”

They went back to following the dog; or rather he did, and Tiar followed him. She didn’t like how her training couldn’t extend to wilderness.

As they went, he started pointing out places he’d set snares for small game and fowl, explaining why and how. She went over it to herself in ever-longer strings of repetitions as each site came and went. After a handful, she eyed a tall leafy plant.

“Elfroot?” she asked, when the Arl-Commander looked.

He shook his head.

“Prophet’s Laurel,” he said, and showed her how the leaves took on a glowing amber iridescence when in shadow, matching the plant’s tiny flowers. Tiar picked some for Diego.

Eventually, after more snare and plant identifications, they caught up to the dog. It was lying contentedly by a deer, muzzle bloody. It’s entire behind wriggled in excitement as they approached, and it _woof_ ed quietly when the Arl-Commander told it it’d done a good job.

The Arl-Commander slung the deer carcass around his shoulders easily. It seemed like a big deer to her. He could probably pick _her_ up and throw her, if he wanted. She wondered if he did that to darkspawn.

The walk back to Caer Dughlean was a lot faster than the walk out had been. Tiar had been keeping an eye out, and tugged on one of his armor straps when he slowed by the gates, pointing out a stretch of thin gravelly shore in the distance. There was an adult figure there, with a passel of children.

The children were in a miserable state. The Crow in charge of them – the large, scarred woman Tiar had seen from a distance – had used the lake to clean them off. So they were wet, and sick, and starved, and cowed by everyone older than them.

The Arl-Commander sent the Crow off with curt instructions to gather blankets. Tiar had been checking in with Diego, tending a small fire, the supplies he’d gathered set out around him, and missed most of the interaction – but something had happened, by the way the Arl-Commander scowled at the woman.

He had the fire built up higher, skinned and gutted the deer, started a stew and bits of meat cooking, and tried to coax the children closer all in short succession. Tiar hadn’t seen the Arl-Commander work at anything that wasn’t court or paperwork before. He was much more efficient like this.

“You know Prophet’s Laurel?” Tiar asked Diego, pulling out the leaves she’d gathered. “It glows.”

“I know,” he said. He took the leaves from her and stripped them, adding them to the steeping bag he had in the small water pot by the fire. “It’s good for healing, if you can get it. Makes things stronger if you add it in, but it works best in things that also have elfroot, or rashvine, or embrium, or one of the Graces.”

The Crow came back with an armful of blankets and left again, avoiding the Arl-Commander. One of the children, who didn’t look as sick as the others, a light-haired elf girl, was clinging to the Arl-Commander, legs around his waist and face pressed into the front of his armor. He was working around her to tend the fire and the food, keeping up a quiet monologue to the children as he did. None of them were so close as the elf girl, but none of them were keeping their distance.

How did he _do_ these things? Had he gotten Messere Revasina so close, so fast?

Diego nudged her, and directed her attention back towards the Caer. The smell of food had brought others creeping closer, apprentices near her own age.

Tiar rose and went to head them off.

“Told you so.”

“Flora,” Tiar said. It wasn’t friendly enough to be a greeting. Flora Availa had been an apprentice with her, and of the group with her former housemate she knew Armand, Nadoru, Juliette, and Gowa. There were too many faces here, familiar or strange. If they wanted something-

“You didn’t come here with us,” Nadoru said, eyes narrowed. There wasn’t enough inflection for it to be accusing, but they all knew better.

Tiar raised her chin. Confidence. Messere Revasina was confident even when he wasn’t, and so long as she _acted_ like she was in control here, maybe they couldn’t fall into old habits.

“When we ran, Diego and I met the Grandmaster in Rialto,” she told the other apprentices. “We came with him.”

“The people Master Availa sent after you never came back,” Armand said.

“Rosso Noche has Rialto. We thought the Crows would lose us there. The Grandmaster found us. He killed them.”

“He could have come to the City then,” Juliette said. “They wouldn’t listen?”

“There was no talking,” Tiar told her. “They were chasing us. He killed them. _They_ didn’t find _him._ ”

Juliette tilted her head.

“He wanted _you?_ ” Flora scoffed.

“He didn’t want people dragged back and tortured to death,” Tiar snapped back at her. “He had no idea who we were.”

“Diego is the one in courtesan training.”

 _He wouldn’t he won’t no no never he’s better-_ burning rage flared all through her _-how dare he loves us he-_

“He’s going to be a healer!”

“Crows can’t be healers.”

“He’s not going to be a Crow!”

“You can’t _not-_ ”

“He’s not going to be! And I’m not going to be!”

“The Grandmaster won’t like that.”

“I was the one who told them they had the option.”

They were scared of Messere Revasina, and it wasn’t right because he wouldn’t hurt him, but she liked seeing it anyway.

“Tiar?”

“They’re _wrong_ about you.”

“Unsurprising,” he said. “They do not know me.”

 _I know you,_ she thought fiercely, as he gathered her into a hug. _You’re_ mine.

“Tiar?” he asked again, quieter. “Why are you angry?”

“They were saying- _things._ ”

“Defending my honor?”

He sounded amused, but _no,_ that wasn’t right. It was-

“You said you loved me. You said you were proud of me.”

“Ah,” he said, and held her a little tighter. “Tiar, what other people say does not change the truth between us. I _do_ love you, I _am_ proud of you, and I think you are very brave. You and Diego left to help Theron, yes? You did very well.”

He was _hers._ He loved _her._ He was _proud_ of her. So long as he was, she could do _anything._

Someone else wedged in beside her. That size, must be Diego.

“Hello, Diego,” Messere Revasina said, shifting to place a hand on his head. “Thank you for helping Theron with the children.”

“Do they need to eat, too?” the Commander asked. Had she been that distracted, or was he still being unfairly quiet?

“I don’t know. Have you eaten lately? Go then. Eat.”

Messere Revasina was holding her. Diego was next to her.

This was right. This was how she wanted it.

* * *

“I need you,” Zevran told his fiancé, when it looked like Theron was going to stay the night with the sick children, playing nursemaid.

“They-”

“ _Ma’len_ , _please_ ,” he begged. “Crows do know how to care for the sick. I-”

“All right.”

Zevran saw Anora, Rosaire, and his children settled in for the night, but Theron still hadn’t finished settling the other children by the time he was done. He waited, and waited, and when Theron still didn’t show he left to find him.

They ran into each other in the hallway, Theron coming and Zevran going. Zevran didn’t wait for them to return to the room – he pressed close and hid himself in Theron’s arms.

“It’s going to be all right,” Theron said quietly. “We can do this.”

Zevran shook his head, and let Theron take them to their room. He was certain they’d displaced some senior Crow from the relative safety of an intact room and lockable door, and some other time, he would have refused. But after today, he didn’t have that kind of energy.

“I hate this,” he said quietly, some minutes later. Theron’s fingers were running gently through his hair, and he was trying to be soothed. “I don’t want to be a Crow, but I keep coming _back._ ”

“You want to help,” Theron murmured.

“It’s awful. I wish I could walk away, and then I feel awful for thinking of just _leaving_ them without help.”

“You _are_ helping.”

“Anora will only let them stay if I am Grandmaster.”

He grabbed Theron’s shirt to keep him in place.

“I _hate_ it,” he said. “I don’t want to be Grandmaster and have no wish to lead the Crows but I cannot _leave_ them, and I have had the time to think on it and she is _right._ I hate that she is right.”

“She’s not _right_ if she’s hurting you.”

“That is not how things work. She is right that she cannot trust them without assurance. She is right that I am unwilling to put them in another’s power. And she was right to think that saying what she did would put me in an untenable situation. I hate the thought of staying, but I would hate myself if I left them.”

“You don’t have to,” Theron insisted.

“And you would walk away?”

They both knew he wouldn’t. There was no point in an answer.

“She is right to say that the Crows need not be what they have been, and that I could be a Crow and Grandmaster in the way _I_ wish to, and have the others follow.”

_But._

He’d spent years pulling himself free and refusing to return. And then he’d gone back to Antiva.

“Did I do this to myself?”

“ _She’s_ the one insisting.”

“I went back to Antiva with the intent of killing Crows. They were deliberately ignoring Ferelden, and thought I was dead. I could have left it alone, and I did not. If I had not killed those other Grandmasters, and been captured by Claudio Valisti, they would not be here.”

“Tiar and Diego would be dead.”

That did not bear thinking of. It was unacceptable. But if he’d never met them, he wouldn’t care.

“I should have stayed in Ferelden.”

“I would have liked that,” Theron said quietly.

“I _knew_ it was a mistake, months before I came back. But I did not _try_ to leave, and I made myself _involved,_ and it was all wrong and now I am stuck with _this!_ ”

“It’s not a _punishment_ ,” Theron said. “It wasn’t _wrong,_ and you don’t deserve it, and-”

“ _Amora_ ,” Zevran sighed.

“No! You _don’t._ You are _good,_ and you were _trying,_ and you hate this and I won’t make you but if you do it you will do _such_ a good job, Satheraan, because it’s _you_ and- I know what you’ve said about who you could have been but you’re _not_ that person and I- to me, you’re so- I-”

Words failing, Theron prostrated himself on the ground before him, hands upturned and wrists bared, as before-

 _“No,”_ Zevran told him, fighting down horror. “Theron- Theron _get up._ ”

He sat up, but stayed kneeling, legs tucked under him, head bowed and hands still upturned, resting in his lap.

“I mean it,” Theron said.

“I am not a _god._ ”

“I know,” he said, and leaned forward enough to press his forehead against one of Zevran’s thighs. “But _ma’sal’shiral,_ I would still do it. I would put you in my place in the hall at Vigil’s Keep and sit at your feet, if I could, and have everyone see how wonderful you are.”

“I do not want your _submission._ I _don’t- Theron get up._ ”

Zevran tugged at his shoulders, and this time, Theron rose. Zevran tightened his hold, trying to really _feel_ the press of muscle and bone. He was here, Theron was here, and it was _safe,_ it wasn’t something to be afraid of, he wasn’t in danger, he didn’t need to run, or hide, he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Satheraan?”

“Don’t do that again. Don’t. I can’t-”

He knew how Theron meant it. He was trying to focus on that, he _was._

“I love you,” Theron said. “If it was too much-”

“I am not scared of your affection,” Zevran told him, because he wasn’t, not any more. Not for years. “It is- I am not so good as that, firstly.”

Theron was going to protest and they were going to fall back into the argument about his character and it was never going to be resolved, it was unproductive, he had to say it but it wasn’t what was most important here.

“Secondly, the _submission,_ it is… everything, Theron, everything I do _not_ want from the Crows, I do not want to be _accustomed_ to it, to become expectant of it. I do not _want_ to want it, to _enjoy_ it. To become _used_ to it. To find myself thinking that it would be easier if they all just _listened_ to me, and want them to follow orders without hesitation or protest; to be _tempted-_ ”

“You wouldn’t,” Theron told him firmly. “You might think it, but you wouldn’t _do_ something like that to make your life easier.”

“Power can _always_ be used badly.”

“But that doesn’t mean it _will_ be.”

“With the power of being Grandmaster, I could-”

“You _won’t._ ”

 _“But I could,”_ Zevran said, trying to make him understand. “I would have it, they would not be surprised if I used it so, and it would always be _there_ and no one _should_ have that sort of power but _I will_ and it is _wrong!_ ”

“But you’re _not going to._ ”

“Just because I would not _now_ does not mean I will not _then!_ ”

Why couldn’t he _understand?_

“I could have been a person who would not care, and I could be again! Things can change! What would _you_ have done in Antiva, if you had come upon me dead in the Wardens’ dungeons? Six years ago, you refused to use blood magic to save a life from demons; but last year you did just that! _Things change,_ and _this_ is not a line I can cross and still- I would not be-”

“And that’s why you _won’t,_ ” Theron insisted. “Because you know it’s wrong and you don’t want to be a person who does that.”

“But if it becomes _useful!_ That is why I cannot let Anora have them!”

“You won’t.”

_“You can’t know that!”_

“And _you_ can’t know that you’ll do something awful with it.”

It was true. He _knew_ it was true. But-

“I am so _scared,_ ” Zevran told him.

“Well, it’s an important job,” Theron said after a moment. “Caring for people. It’s all right. I wasn’t scared trying to be friends with you, or falling in love, but if me-from-now met Blight-you, I’d be scared, too. I’d be thinking about all the things I know about you and be worried that I was going to scare you off or hurt you on accident and I wouldn’t know what to do, and I’d just really want it all to not be happening even as I tried to make that you feel safe and happy and all that.”

“That is…” Zevran said. “Yes. Quite that.”

And _now,_ some of the tension went away, because Theron understood it well enough to analogize about it, and it wasn’t the same as feeling it but it was closer than he’d thought they’d get.

“But it is still-”

“I promise,” Theron said, and didn’t continue until he met his eyes. “That I won’t let you.”

“But you won’t always be here,” slipped out, quiet and bleak and _where_ had that come from, _why-_

“I’ll be here for a while yet.”

 _You can’t promise that,_ Zevran wanted to say, but no. No, they didn’t talk about this, they didn’t think about it if they could avoid it. This was something to keep away from everyday life, to preserve the _living_ of it, not foster the anticipation of death and life alone.

“I cannot do this without you,” he said instead. “If you are gone, what do I have? Who will I be, if I am Grandmaster but do not have you?”

Just thinking about it, he could feel the waiting edges of the empty darkness that would take him when Theron was Called to the Roads. It would be everything, and nothing, and _what would he be,_ lost in that – in the same empty darkness of Rinna’s death? Of Taliesin’s, however briefer? Of times past, barren days of endless walking to find the next party to lodge a Warden treaty with, when all they’d had was their thoughts and his inevitably turned to when the Crows learned better, caught him, dragged him back, made him complete the contract, and the Crows was all he’d ever be?

“Yourself,” Theron said. “And- _ma’len._ I know, I _know_ it will hurt and be awful, but- I’m not the only thing you have anymore. There’s Alistair, and Morrigan, and Kieran and Diego and Tiar, and Anora, and your mother and Tanis and your brother, and Merrill and Ashalle and Tamlen. You won’t have nowhere and no one if you don’t have me. Alistair won’t let you go, and my Wardens won’t kick you out. If you don’t want to stay at the Vigil – I didn’t, when you were gone – you could go to Denerim and live at court, or to Mont-de-glace with your mother and Tanis, or if Morrigan decides to travel again you could go with her, or go with your brother if he moves to take new employment, or even if you felt like you could you could go to Hallarenis’haminathe and live with Sabrae, because you’d be my-”

 _“Widower”_ was a hard word for both of them.

“-and they’re family too, even if you don’t really know them. They’d never turn you away. You have a whole life, _ma’len._ It will work without me. If you’re Grandmaster I won’t let the Crows consume you, and when I’m not here, everyone else who cares about you won’t let them, either.”

Zevran leaned into him. It was all hypothetical at the moment, but it didn’t make it hurt less. Theron held him close, and kissed his temple.

“I can see this, and know it,” Zevran said. “But I cannot _feel_ it. There is only…”

“You’re going to try,” Theron said. “It’s going to be very good, because you care so much. Things might not go easily all the time but they’re going to _know,_ Satheraan, that you’re trying to help them. And that’s going to make all the difference.”

* * *

They met again amongst the crates and makeshift shelves of the Archives.

“It is done.”

Rosaire and the Arl-Commander had been at the records all morning. Every so often Anora had been able to hear from where she sat waiting, at this table from the day before, when they got particularly excited about something. She had occupied her own time with paging through the intelligence the Tranquil brought her, piece by piece, on Zevran’s orders. A good deal of the blackmail the Crows had kept on Ferelden was unusable, out-of-date, or pertained to those who had died in the Blight, but it was the giving of the information that was important.

It had not been a bad way to spend her morning, just not the one she’d been expecting.

“Then welcome, Grandmaster of the Crows.”

Zevran had been meeting with the Crows’ leadership so far today. It was as Anora had been expecting – just not with _her_ in attendance, or the Arl-Commander, as she’d been expecting. But she could appreciate the need to handle a group’s business with just the group.

“ _Domsaru bin Etrevi_ ,” he said from his newly-taken seat at the table.

“Pardon?”

“That is the title properly, in Antivan,” he explained. “It is antiquated, and even in Antiva, the rich and the noble who bought assassinations had a preference for the Trade _‘Grandmaster’_.”

“And you do not?”

“Cruelty and death are less attached to _‘Domsaru’_. In the full title, of course they are. But simply _‘Domsaru’_ is the title for the leader of a religious order. Which the Crows were, once. Though you could make an argument for it to hold presently, as well.”

“None of it seems particularly monk-like.”

“In many ways, it is not,” Zevran said. “But in some ways, yes. There is a particular cult of Andraste in the Crows, you know. Burned Andraste. It is not particularly theological, but it is what I grew up with, by and large. It is similar to Andrastean faith as practiced in Antiva generally, but it… allows for the Crows. We know we sin. We know we cannot truly repent. But what choice was there? To live contrary to the Maker is to die and be damned to the Void, forever denied His kind regard, to exist in suffering. But Andraste is merciful, no? And understanding. She knows Crows are not so worthy as to deserve the presence of the Maker, but she also knows of the circumstance. So – gentle oblivion. Eternal sleep. Not accepted but not cast away. Given peace. Promised an end to pain and fear, at the price of… engagement. A life to live it. Maybe, perhaps, you get just a bit of time, if there is something that needs being told to another. But it is an imaginable sort of paradise, in a life where you know you will not die gently and the best times are when you are not being watched and have no obligations or orders or responsibilities.”

“It still sounds very bleak.”

“To you, perhaps. But a Crow’s life lends itself more easily to fatalism than optimism.”

“Well then, _Domsaru_ – what say the Crows?”

Zevran sighed, and looked off at the wall.

“They deferred to me. Those who stay will accept your terms. I do not know who, if any, will seek employment as assassins by contract; but all who will remain will consider your jobs first. I would ask that you wait to provide opportunities until _after_ they have been paid.”

“I could hardly pay them _before_ they agreed to work for me.”

“No, you misunderstand. I mean to say – until after they have been properly paid by the Crows.”

Anora raised an eyebrow.

Zevran sighed again.

“The way that one acquired contracts in Antiva,” he said. “If you were not assigned one from a parcel of such that your House Master had won, was by bidding on them. Whoever could do it the fastest, with the highest adherence to Crow standards and any specifications put forth in the contract, and at the least cost to the Crows. The last often meant forgoing the majority of what _could_ have been your share in the profits of the contract, if not giving up being paid entirely. But it happened often enough, because a Crow that did not complete contracts was pointless, worthless. Not taking jobs was just as deadly as failing them. But the House provided a minimum of shelter and food for those who did complete contracts, so a run of jobs without pay would not starve you. It was unfair, still. The amounts are being calculated, but any graduated Crow who is here now is going to paid the difference between contract values and actual pay; or at least have the amount they are allowed to draw from the treasury noted and updated. If there are those who wish to leave rather than accept your terms, I will not have them be forced to choose before they have a means of support.”

“Zevran Revasina, are you starting a _bank?_ ”

“I would have no idea how,” he said. “No, we will hold the funds in care of those who have earned them. I suppose, if someone wants to continue the arrangement as you pay them, we could do so. The rest of the treasury goes to supporting the children and apprentices, and- well. I had the thought to ask Theron if the Crows might keep this place. The gold would pay for repairs here. So that no one would not have a place to live.”

Now _that_ played well with her own plans.

“I see no reason for him to refuse,” Anora said. “And I see no reason why we could not include such arrangements in the formal agreement between Ferelden and the Crows.”

“Hm,” he agreed. “Is that the business for the rest of our day, then?”

“Later, perhaps,” she said. “We will begin writing things up. For now, I have more questions. What will your organizational structure be like? What services will the Crows provide their own, if any besides housing for all, safeguarding their money, and caring for the younger ones? Will you recruit?”

 _“No!”_ was the immediate denunciation of that idea, but Anora pressed it.

“Surely there would be those who might try to join the Crows and learn the skills? Will you turn them away? Will you not pass the expertise on to others?”

“Not at _this_ cost!”

“The cost of the Crows in Antiva, where they are no longer, under those who would found their power on slavery, as you would not?” she countered.

He glared. She refused to back down.

“The Wardens perpetuate.”

“The _Wardens_ have a duty of guardianship.”

“So would the Crows I employ,” Anora reminded him. “And I would not leave Ferelden poorer than I found it, or _made_ it, if it is at all within my power.”

“I will not take _children!_ ”

“And _I_ would not let you. But adults? Who come uncoerced? I understand the training to make a Crow assassin is harsh and unforgiving, but I would remind you that I am _not_ looking for assassins. Simply people with similar skills in some areas.”

“It is _torture._ ”

“It needn’t be. It _shouldn’t_ be. None in the army were trained such. That is _not_ how you teach skills or reinforce lessons. You use drills. Practice bouts. Mock scenarios. I think you forget, _Domsaru_ , that I am not an Antivan princess looking to gather more skilled, disposable pieces to use in the Game.”

They sat in silence for a while. The Tranquil brought more material for her to look through.

“Apologies, my Queen,” he eventually said. If it perhaps sounded a bit stiff, it was still Anora’s prerogative to acknowledge or not.

“I do understand why it happens,” she said. “And I know that you react on a lifetime of expectation that the only ones who would ask would not particularly care for the people they used; and that you do not think of _me_ as one of those people. If nothing else, this-”

She indicated the small pile of files the Tranquil had been bringing her.

“-proves your true regard.”

“I could not keep it.”

He made it sound like a simple, easy choice. For him, perhaps it was. He was engaged to the Arl-Commander, after all.

What a gift she had received in him. Rendon Howe had been thoroughly unpleasant and despicable, but he had managed to do _something_ right by convincing her father to approve hiring an assassin.

Off somewhere else, Rosaire’s voice rose excitedly, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable.

“I had another thought,” Zevran said. “There is a wealth of information here. Some, I would not share. Some likely should _not_ be shared. But there is plenty that could, and should.”

Was he going where she thought he was- he smiled briefly at her.

“And I owe you an engagement present. It would not be all at once, I’m afraid. The Archives need vetting and there are more pressing concerns. But any place of learning should have the informational resources to support it.”

“I…”

She had guessed that he meant some sort of granted access to the Archives. But _that_ was something else entirely.

“None of it was come by without some cost in blood,” Zevran continued. “It should be put to better use. I know that somewhere in all this are the foundational sources for some of the… how to say. In Velabanchel, most prisoners are there to die. The Crows assigned there have free reign, and supply of bodies. If you want an anatomy lesson, or the details of how very particular injuries heal, or the exact effects of different dosages of poison administered at different states of starvation or the like, the Velabanchel records are the place to look. I happen to know that outside the Circles, there are very, very few reliable texts on the subject of healing, and little formal training at all. A solid grounding in the workings of the body would be a good improvement, I would think.”

There were other things to talk about; she needed to pull herself together.

“It would be a gift beyond compare,” Anora managed to say.

“The personnel records, we will keep. And I would not be surprised to find myself obligated to provide the Dalish with some things, given what I could hear of Rosaire. But I’m certain copies could be made of those, if the originals must go elsewhere.”

“My gratitude is beyond expression.”

A _library._ He was just gifting her a library, vast and comprehensive enough to serve as the core of a university. The Crows had been collecting for Ages – surely this could rival the University of Orlais. She _had_ to have Brother Genitivi take a look at all this.

“I have nowhere to put it all,” Anora realized.

“Perhaps Theron can come up with another castle.”

“Perhaps I would rather have it closer to the capital,” she countered with the same good humor; and here was a moment she’d treasure – the beginning of a dream realized.


	17. Chapter 17

“Hi, Justice.”

“Commander,” Justice greeted him, and Theron took a moment to adjust.

He hadn’t been dreaming the same, since Kirkwall. He didn’t get demons like Satheraan did, but often enough, now, he’d realize in the middle of a conversation with someone that they were a spirit, and that he was dreaming. It was odd. Before, all his times he’d known he was in the Fade, he’d been aware of it from the beginning, and fighting demons to get out. This was more like taking a walk in the Brecilian, where the Veil was so thin spirits could slip through on accident or by determination, and you’d have to politely ask them to leave you alone.

But Justice came with his own face – his own face? That was new – and the dream he’d been having slipped away as the spirits responsible for it were scattered by the presence of one of their more powerful brethren.

“You look nice,” Theron said. “I like your face. And it’s good to see you! How have you been?”

“Thank you,” Justice said, a touch of awkwardness coloring his words. Or, really, the feeling of polite acknowledgement of the compliment, not words, because that was the Fade for you. It wasn’t really speaking so much as emotion and intent, but it didn’t do to focus on that too long, things got odd. “I have been… considering my course of action.”

“Oh?”

“How to best provide-”

Confusion, fear, death, the sense of failure. Doubt, insecurity. Guilt.

“-justice.”

There was a fleeting impression of mage robes, Circle dormitories, and just the slightest hint of _something off,_ needing the trick of looking for what _was_ to know what was _meant to be_ so that you knew what _wasn’t,_ though it should have been _._ “But I came here to see that you were well, after Denerim.”

“Thank you, I am,” Theron said. “And, well, while you’re here, and working on thinking things through. Alistair is taking up a new fighting form, and I am too, and I was thinking about fighting as a spirit warrior again. I haven’t since I saw you last in Amaranthine, and it _is_ useful. And it would be nice to have you around.”

Justice was quiet a moment. His head tilted ever so slightly, light confusion drifting off him.

“I will stay if you wish,” he said. “But you do not need me for that.”

His own confusion landed heavier in the Fade.

“Of course I do? I’m not a mage, I can’t get to the Fade by myself. If I could, I’d have been using the arcane warrior skills I learned from the spirit in the crystal in the Brecilian when I met you.”

“You do not need me,” Justice asserted. “You have no need of any spirit.”

“But-”

“Have you tried to fight as a spirit warrior without me?”

“No, of course not.”

“You should. I will be right.”

“I’m not a mage,” Theron said again. “And I don’t take lyrium like the Templars do, to pretend at being one.”

There was a careful neutrality in the flow of communication between them.

 _“Justice,”_ Theron protested, distressed now. “I’m _not._ I can’t do magic. And I’m too old to suddenly start.”

“Have you tried?” Justice asked, pushing at his distress with calm patience.

_“Of course I haven’t tried.”_

“You should,” Justice told him. “I have seen you use magic. You did so in the Blackmarsh to repair the Veil. And you told us of your shapeshifting when attending to Kinloch Hold.”

“The Blackmarsh was ritual circles someone had set up, you just needed to put them back. And the shapeshifting was _in the Fade,_ you can do that sort of thing here.”

“Even ritual magic requires magic,” Justice said. “I have not seen many mortals attempt shapeshifting even here, where their waking bodies would be of no risk. Those that have have all been mages, and none took so easily to it as you say you did, nor so many forms. That is more the provenance of spirits.”

“Well I’m definitely not _that._ ”

“I thought you were,” Justice said. “I could feel you coming, in the Blackmarsh. I only knew otherwise when I saw you in the direct company of mortals. There, it was apparent that you thought and acted far too like them to be a spirit. But you are as comfortable dreaming as you are waking. You speak like us. You look like us.”

There was a lot there, but the thing that Theron’s mind grabbed on to was: “What does that even _mean,_ I’m not… glowy.”

Justice wasn’t as glowy as he had been, either, he couldn’t help but notice. Once, he had been bright white-blue outlines and blueish mist. Now, his armor gleamed that light, and his eyes glowed to match, but otherwise, he seemed… human. Only his voice gave him away.

“You…” Justice began, but trailed off, searching for a way to explain. Frustration and deliberation swirled slowly around them. “It _is_ clear where you are. But your edges blend in. It is-”

The image was of a bas relief, pulled from someone’s memory of a ruin. The details were sharp in the prominent center, but it had no clear outline, weathering having eroded away the less-raised areas until carving and untouched stone were indistinguishable.

Reflexively, Theron looked down at himself. He was still there, looking as he did while he was awake.

“ _I_ can see it,” Justice said. “So can others. They hear it, as well. Mortals who are conscious of being here use words and focused willpower, acting as though they are awake. It is only those who do not realize they are dreaming who speak as we do, more in feeling and intention than anything their waking bodies produce. You know where you are, but you speak as though this was natural.”

“It’s just how things _work_ here,” Theron protested. “It’s the _Fade,_ it’s all about feeling and wanting. I could shapeshift trying to get out of the sloth demon’s domain _because_ it’s the Fade and there’s no reason I _shouldn’t_ have been able to. This is _all magic._ ”

“Yet I have not, in my experience, met a mortal as… thoughtlessly confident here as you. Feynriel almost was, but he still treated here as a place separate. Somewhere he had power, but not somewhere natural to him.”

“I’m not a _somniari_ , either.”

“You are something,” Justice said. “I would not be surprised, Commander, if you are singular in this. I would say it might be because there has never been another who did what you did, with Urthemiel; but your time in Kinloch Hold was before that.”

“It’s the Brecilian,” Theron said. “I lived there my whole life until the Blight. The Veil is thin there-”

“I have spent plenty of time around your sister. She _is_ very confident in her ability to treat with spirits and negotiate her dreams, and enthusiastic about the Fade, but she is separate enough that she could not be mistaken for a spirit.”

Theron was very aware of the helpless sort of worried feeling suffusing the area around them, and tried to contain it. Justice’s eyes flicked up and glared sharply at something behind him, but Theron didn’t turn to look. It was almost certainly a demon, but if it had been a threat, Justice would have drawn his sword, or he would have felt something.

“Your sister would still have turned to look.”

“I really could be…?”

“If they did not know you, or they did and had some reason to doubt that you were yourself – yes, I believe it would not be hard to think that you were, in truth, a very old and experienced spirit, well-practiced in pretending to be mortal, but imperfect at this impersonation.”

Mistaken for being a spirit, _Creators._ The next time he was out in the field and the entire thing ended up in the Fade, would anyone believe him? In Kinloch Hold, Alistair and Zevran and Wynne had believed he’d been himself and not a spirit. In the Blackmarsh, Anders and Nathaniel and Oghren hadn’t questioned it. In Amgarrak, the Dace brothers had never – could he trust that it would go like that again?

If one of his people-

Satheraan would. He had to be vigilant about the Fade now, to distrust when it came to dreams. They hadn’t talked very much about it, but he knew enough. Theron _wanted_ him to be distrustful of things in the Fade, if it was keeping him alive and not possessed, but if they ended up in the Fade together, if what Justice said was true. He could be too comfortable, and Satheraan too worried and distrustful, and the doubt would spiral, and if he couldn’t be convincing enough-

Theron would forgive him. Satheraan wouldn’t forgive himself – Denerim would have proven that if he hadn’t already known his _sal’shiral_ would carry him as he did Rinna and Taliesin. Satheraan would-

Justice drew his sword.

“You should try waking up.”

A terror demon scuttled past the corner of his eye, and Theron tried to think of _something else._

“If you’re right,” he said. “What does that make you?”

Justice was tracking the demons, and answered without taking his eyes off them.

“Coming to the same end point,” he said. “From the other direction. Fight or wake up, Commander.”

Theron woke up. He didn’t know if it had been immediately after, or if the vague confusion of coming out of sleep signified unremembered fighting. It was still dark out, but he had the feeling the light would begin to grey soon.

He lay there a few moments, breathing and looking at the ceiling, before shifting to his side. Satheraan was still asleep. Everything seemed right for a few moments, but then Theron became accustomed enough to wakefulness to sense the tension in his fiancé.

“You’re safe,” Theron murmured, gathering him in his arms. “You’re safe, _ma’len_.”

He held him until he relaxed, the nightmare banished, then slipped out of bed. _He_ wasn’t settled, and he couldn’t quite convince himself that the demons who’d come to investigate him hadn’t moved on to the next closest sleeping mind once he’d woken up.

They were in Riverreach for the night, set to arrive back at Vigil’s Keep before another sunset. The town had set them up in the Bann’s estate, as when they’d passed through before. Anora had given him _another_ pointed look about the fact there wasn’t actually a Bann of the Hafterfields to be living here when they’d been settling in, like she hadn’t done so when they’d been on their way to Caer Dughlean. There was a walled-in yard, so Theron took his quilting and sword and went down through the silent estate out into the night.

Riverreach itself was quiet, the loudest noise that of the river. He ended up kneeling on the ground for a while, uncertain of what to do and if he should even try anything, running through formal prayers and offering some personal ones in between – the usual things. Safety for his people, happiness for his love, protection for his family.

The light was actually greying, as he’d thought it would, by the time he’d stood, taking up his sword and sliding his mind as smoothly as he could from prayer to focus on the arcane warrior knowledge he carried, unable to use. He couldn’t do magic, but it was a _warrior_ style. The _point_ was having a sword. His training in swordsmanship had begun with Sabrae, and the years since leaving had finished it, but that crystal in the Brecilian had taken him from only knowing enough to keep himself together in a fight to knowing more than he had been capable of doing properly.

The Blight had brought him strength and stamina that he was hard-pressed to find a match for outside the Deep Roads – more than enough to be physically capable of putting the non-magical parts of what he’d been imparted to use. Training with Alistair had helped him work out the technical parts you properly needed an instructor for, and by the time of the Battle of Denerim, he’d been more than ready.

It had been a while since he’d simply done forms, instead of having practice bouts every morning. Theron went through them in the order the spirit of the warrior had learned them, trying to stay in the same headspace as he’d reached while praying.

He wasn’t a mage. This was just swords. A controlled flow through formal stances. This was him. He wasn’t a spirit.

Riverreach’s buildings were black silhouettes against pink and orange when the magic settled around him. The world was laced with energy in his sight, the plants overlain with faint threaded ghosts of themselves, the dawn songbirds carrying the blue-white brightness of thinking life. His sword left a light trail in the air, and to his eyes, the lyrium-infused metal was a glowing blade shape.

It was just him, here. No mages on this side of the Veil to help thin it. No spirits to reach across and help him find the right way to pull the Veil over himself just so, not in the Fade but close enough to brush against it. Close enough to feel. He pulled away.   

 The magic faded, and the feeling of the Fade with it. Theron stood in the brightening dawn and breathed around the sensation of some part of himself being out of place _._

* * *

Every day her son was gone was a particular sort of agony. They hadn’t planned to spend long attending to the Crows, but Caer Dughlean and Loch Feith were four days away. If anything went wrong, they wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Nehna hated it. He could be in trouble. He could be hurt. She wouldn’t be there. It had made sense at the time not to go – _she_ certainly didn’t want to be around that many Crows – but now it felt like being here was worse than being there.

It was a relief to see Satheraan and his group return to the Vigil. Even if they _had_ come back with something of a wagon train, and with more people than they’d set out with. Nehna stayed up on the wall, watching the group’s dispersal and waiting for a good moment. Theron called over a Warden and sent the adult Crows off with her as Vigil servants unloaded chests from the carts. The Queen’s elf lady came out to greet her, and then both the Queen and Theron split off – the Queen to the Vigil proper, and Theron towards the clinic _with children._ Most of them were the same age Satheraan had been, when-

She took the stairs off the ramparts so she could welcome him back. His return hug was tighter than usual, and something hard pressed against her jawbone, hidden under his shirt.

“What’s this?” Nehna asked, putting her hand on it. It felt hard enough to be metal, but it was too small and wrongly-placed to be any piece of armor.

“It needed doing,” her son told her. He sounded tired. Worn.

“Tell me,” she urged. He sighed, and they started walking towards the buildings.

“The Queen would not allow the Crows to stay unless she felt assured of their behavior,” he said as they passed inside. “A completely reasonable worry. But I cannot see them escaped from _congradi_ Masters and Antiva to simply fall again into the control of someone who would treat them without care. We came to an impasse. I would not have her own them, and she would not have them stay…”

“I thought you trusted her.”

“I do,” he said. “But with this? In a position of such unequal power? I _cannot._ I cannot trust _anyone_ so implicitly, in such a circumstance. For myself…”

He looked off into the distance.

“If it was my autonomy. I could sell it to Theron. Technically, I already did.”

“He did _what.”_

“ _Mamae_ – no, no it is not – it is what _I_ did,” he said. “When I failed the original contract on him and Alistair, I ended up pledging loyalty to him. I _meant_ it in the same way as the Crows, because that was all I assumed I could have, because it was all I had ever had. In the same way, the Crows who came are not in a position to bargain. Not in terms of actual capital, but outlook – Antiva was lost to them, and the only recourse they saw was to sell themselves elsewhere, as I did. I was fortunate in Theron; I did not know when I promised, but he would never hold me to that. Similarly, I feel I know the Queen well enough to think she would deal in good faith, but she has priorities besides individual Crows developing independence. As she should, running a country. If they _had_ to sell themselves to another country to stay alive… I would have pointed them to her over any other. But it _was not._ ”

So…?

“You’re talking around the point,” Nehna realized.

“The point,” her son said bleakly. He didn’t continue.

“Satheraan?”

“I-”

He seemed hunted, guilty.

“ _Da’len._ ”

He stopped in the hallway.

“I agreed to be Grandmaster of the Crows.”

They were only just outside the Arlessa’s suite, where she and the rest of the extended family guests were staying. They had the drawing room, and she pulled her son through the salon, past Morrigan and Merrill and Tamlen, into the drawing room where she and Tanis had been set up.

He flinched when she closed the door behind them. She almost missed it. He was good at hiding.

What was she supposed to say to this? He was scared. She didn’t like this. She didn’t have anything to say to reassure him.

“Well,” she said, trying to figure out what she was feeling. _‘Didn’t like this’_ wasn’t specific enough. She didn’t think she was mad; she just _hated_ it. Yes, that worked – she _hated_ this, hated hearing it, that her son had been stolen into the Crows and fought his way out and now had _gone back._ Visiting the ones who had followed him here had been one thing. They couldn’t have been ignored. No one could have afforded that.

But to _join back up._

Her son opened his mouth like he was going to speak, but he was apparently at as much a loss for words as she was. He shut it again.

“I hate this,” really was all there was to say.

Silence reigned for a few moments.

“Do you hate me?” Satheraan asked hesitantly.

It _always_ happened like this, it _always-_

 _“No,”_ she told him. And tried to come up with something better, _anything._ “I-”

Sharing. That was what she was supposed to do, wasn’t it, to stop making the same mistakes.

“We wanted better for you than this,” she told him. “Your father, he used to- he’d spend hours with you. He was so- when your father would tell me about his life. I’d tell him how you’d grow up, how we’d get you into a respectable trade, because he was a Crow so he could scare people into taking you and we’d have the money for you to have a good apprenticeship – with a printer, a clerk, a grocer, a glazier, _something._ And after, I didn’t want you to- I didn’t want you to leave. But I still hoped sometimes that when you got old enough, you’d run off with the ships. Go somewhere better. You were supposed to have better things.”

The stiff fear in his expression was gone, but it could mean he’d just managed to hide it.

“That’s why, Mamae,” he said, and he at least sounded steady. “No one will protect them if I don’t. They won’t forget what happened. But they’re all _compradi,_ there. Anyone who cared about them is dead, or gone, or they didn’t have anyone in the first place, or they were sold because it was thought the Crows could give them that better life. They wouldn’t. I will.”

It probably should have been more comforting. It made sense, at least; and the intent behind it was… well, it was everything she could have hoped for. Not how she wanted it. But he had his kindness still. His empathy and generosity.

“The Crows who came with you, then.”

“Came to join the Wardens,” Satheraan said. Unexpected. “Not with me. It was what they chose, after they were paid.”

“Paid?” she asked, dubious. It sounded like they’d been bribed, but surely-

“The Crows would keep most of the payment for a contract,” he said. “If they had kept only what they needed for the overall costs, and perhaps something as the fee for handling the business end-”

He pulled himself back on track.

“They did not. It was another way to keep us from running. It spent quickly, given the cost of equipment upkeep. And other things. Medical treatment and such. If you did not want to fall into debt with the Crows. They would pay you even less, then. Even take contracts with no recompense whatsoever, no help. They _earned_ their money on their contracts. And they are slaves no longer. So I had the value of their contracts compiled, and they have a right to the difference from the treasury, to draw from as they please. I anticipate many of them will take the entire amount at once and hide it somewhere.”

“Good.”

“I, ah-”

He pointed.

There was a chest there, by her and Tanis’s things. It wasn’t hers.

She looked back at him. He just handed her the key.

It was a sturdy chest, heavy-looking. When she opened it, the walls were as thick as two of her fingers. It was full of pouches with paper tags on the ties.

She’d never seen those tags before. But this was a banker’s chest, and she knew what banker’s tags were supposed to look like. She had no idea who she’d take the tags to if the amounts written on them didn’t match their contents. The authentication stamp had no monogram. But it was two black birds in a red circle, two-colored to show the time and money the Crows could afford to use. And her son had done this. He would take care of it.

Nehna counted up the tags, and the number she came to-

“The _‘debts’_ the Crows give out are always meant to be unpayable,” her son told her softly, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder as she wept for her husband. It had seemed so much when the Crows had told her the price she’d pay, but looking at it like this – Adan’s life had only mattered this much to them, in the end. She could easily wrap her arms around this chest. “Even those who have the money to pay find the Crows keep coming for other things. You were already free of it, but you never should have had it at all, and I can’t fix what happened-”

She reached up to place a hand over his and leaned into it. She understood.

* * *

“You hired Crows.”

“I expect those who come to work at court to answer to you.”

“You hired the Crows and will be giving them a treaty like the Wardens have.”

Anora raised an eyebrow at her.

“Would you rather I had _left_ them?”

Of _course_ not.

“You realize,” Erlina told her. “That if they try something, there’s not going to be a lot I can do about it.”

“I am giving them a chance,” Anora said. “More importantly, it stabilizes our relationship with Zevran Revasina and the Arl-Commander.”

“Does it?”

“If we have learned anything, it’s that the Arl-Commander is far more likely to be content if Zevran is happy. He didn’t want them to be forced out of the country, so I arranged this. It _does_ benefit you, Erlina.”

Erlina could not think of a way it possibly could. One Crow had been bad enough. Now there many more of them. She’d had to keep in mind what the Wardens might do if crossed for six years, and _now_ she’d have to consider Crows as well. And if the Wardens and the Crows decide to _work together,_ Andraste protect them.

“There will be more rumors like those after Eamon started interfering,” Erlina warned her. “About why you could possibly need assassins.”

“To prevent anyone else from having them, of course,” was Anora’s easy answer. “But more importantly, they _will_ talk about the Crows. It will be the talk of Thedas for years to come, I imagine. It will be _very_ clear to everyone who exactly my spymaster is.”

That was not something Erlina would have thought of, though it was almost certainly going to be how this worked out, because required that there _be_ Crows, _in Ferelden._

“He’ll deny it,” she said instead.

“And who will believe him?”

“The Left Hand might.”

“Do you foresee her becoming a problem?”

“The only one she answers to is the Divine,” Erlina said. “All it will take is the Most Holy deciding _we_ are a problem. And she is friends with Messere Revasina and the Arl-Commander. She could do _anything,_ and I wouldn’t assume that she’d be tricked by a diversion of Crows. She _says_ she’s here to have a better base of operations for overseeing Kirkwall and the situations in Antiva and Rivain, but she’s out in Amaranthine City digging around in the Grand Cleric’s household and interviewing the clergy attached to Our Lady Redeemer. She’d definitely recruiting informants. She was doing it in Denerim.”

“She’s the Left Hand, of _course_ she was. All the embassies do.”

“ _They_ confine themselves to Denerim, and maybe a few others scattered across the northern port cities, if they’ve the money,” Erlina argued. “The Antivan embassy most of all, though they’ve been… _cowed_ these last few years by Messere Revasina and haven’t kept it up well. The Left Hand could have informants in _every_ Chantry in the country.”

“That would be a massive undertaking.”

“The _Chantry_ is a _‘massive undertaking’_ , Anora. All the Divine has to do is decide she doesn’t like us to make our lives difficult. The Arl-Commander may be her Left Hand’s friend, but he’s also a man with position and influence who has very publicly refused a Grand Cleric’s authority, and also the Templars’. More than once, since he interfered at Kinloch Hold. And he’s Dalish. And _you’re_ going into talks with them. It might be politically necessary, after granting them that land, but even that could be – there was an _Exalted March._ And there were already rumors that the Divine might have been considering one on Kirkwall. This isn’t a good time to seem combative.”

“Would she think to go that far? She was stationed in Ferelden for most of her career.”

“She was relatively unknown and a controversial choice for Divine,” Erlina reminded her. “Such people may make vicious political decisions to gain support. We can’t rely on the situation with Divine Beatrix III holding. _She_ knew the Chantry taking direct action in Ferelden would look too much like renewed Orlesian interference, and she’d already not done much to keep them from invading in the first place. But Divine Justinia just had a Circle implode and pull a city down, Antiva’s gone schismatic, and Rivain chased the Chantry out completely. I don’t need informants in Val Royeaux to know that the court’s default conversation topic is sneering about her capabilities or that there will be Grand Clerics moving against her soon. Ferelden would be an easy target; and the Arl-Commander the easiest target within that. Especially to get the Orlesian nobility to shut up.”

Anora looked out the window of the suite they’d been given. Erlina knew the view well from the time she’d been here without her friend and Queen – it overlooked the newly-incorporated town outside the walls. It was busy with new construction work in response to the charter. Soon enough, there would be new shops and houses and merchants’ offices scattered through throughout those that already existed. The small Chantry that had developed to serve those displaced after the burning of Amaranthine was hidden by the outer wall, but the scattered group of caravansaries – for the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild, the Merchants’ Guild of Amaranthine, a few of the major Antivan Houses and she’d have to look into that, Zevran Revasina had absolutely been working them the way he’d done the embassy – and the Dyers’ and Weavers Guild sub-House were clearly visible, holding pride-of-place by the crossroads between the Vigil and the bridge over the Hafter. A large area not far away had been blocked out for the construction of a townhouse, and Lady Stockard’s hired workers were busy there, doing their best to stay out of the way of the wall-building crews of Voldrik Glavonak. At the rate the Arling had been hiring him for construction jobs, he was going to be the richest craftsman in Ferelden. He might even beat out Wade Donner, whose new smithy was the focal point of the already-constructed workshops outside the current gates. That smithy was busy well into the night, working on the commission for the gates for the new outer walls, helped along by his husband’s new acquisition of a high office in the Smith’s Guild. Herren Donner’s rather ruthless pursual of journeymen smiths to join up with the outfit had been news in the circles of Denerim’s craftsmen for a while now, as the only other place in the country with Masters’ workshops of comparable size.

“I think she would find him harder to get rid of than she’d hope,” Anora said. “I don’t like him very much, but his Wardens do. So does his Arling. We haven’t been here – and we should have some time ago, I realize now – but I can’t imagine they don’t know how well-off they are, comparatively.”

“They seem to,” Erlina said. “The main force of the Blight didn’t get quite this far, but the Bannorn is just to the south and darkspawn don’t care about borders. The farms there had some troubles. Amaranthine city did end up being one of the major centers hit by the Blight, in the end, but it was brief and they rebuilt better even than Highever, who never saw it at all.”

“But they saw Rendon Howe, who looted it after he slaughtered the Couslands and burned the castle out.”

She was right about that, at least.

“And then he kept taking from the Teyrnir after that,” Erlina agreed. “That money came here. It’s definitely helped.”

“Should we worry about Teyrn Fergus bypassing the proper reparation demands and sending assassins?”

“He’s not another Eamon. And who could he even go to, now? The Crows are here.”

Which was still _very much_ not a good development.

“You might suggest he offer to help.”

“Should I really encourage him?” Anora asked, and gestured at the growing town outside. “Vigil’s Keep has always been just far enough away from the Pilgrim’s Path to avoid becoming a major center, even though Amaranthine has been the primary seat of power in the area as far back as record and legend remember. _This_ is unprecedented. This town won’t ever outpace Amaranthine city – they don’t have a coastal port. But half a mile to the Hafter isn’t so far. How long will it take them to swallow Arlstoll? Less than half a day downriver is Haftersport and Blackmarsh Bay, with the Amaranth Ocean and the Waking Sea beyond. Upriver is the Bannorn. Many of the northern farm traders will find a Vigil’s Keep with an Arl, the Wardens, and a merchant town to be worth the trip. It won’t stop the River Drakon trade – Denerim will always need food – but the River Hafter is more convenient for most of the northeast. And there is this _Kal’hirol_ situation. A dwarven kingdom with a guarded road to Orzammar that will never have travel slowed from mud or rain or snow or river crossings. How many human merchants may choose to brave the Deep Roads remains to be seen, but the dwarven merchants from _Orzammar_ certainly are. I heard from their contacts in Knotwood town. It’s a fast journey from Orzammar to Kal’hirol, and from there not far to the Vigil by road or river. That’s dwarven smithing and runecrafts from two different settlements; and if they’re not reclaiming lost mines close to the Roads route then they’re idiots. They haven’t survived surrounded by darkspawn by being _that._ What if they send lyrium through?”

One of the few things more expensive than lyrium was amaranth dye. The Arl already had that.

“I remember very well what people were saying about his hiring practices in Denerim. _‘Not a good elf servant to be found in the entire city’_ , because he’d managed to hire so many of them, and they were getting paid even when he _wasn’t there_ and they hadn’t much to do. Amaranthine city doesn’t have an alienage, but there are plenty of elves there. The Highever alienage was destroyed by Howe. Many of them went to Amaranthine, and then they ended up _here._ Most of them didn’t go back. I’ve had conversations with Teyrn Fergus about the trouble that’s causing. And of course there’s the problem of elves buying out of alienages elsewhere and coming here; or the wandering farmhands leaving the Bannorn for farms in Amaranthine. The amount of complaints I’ve had; and the number of potential new nobility who backed out of the bidding because they decided a title wasn’t _worth_ dealing with this-”

“The Arl-Commander has a point here,” Erlina dared to say. “If the elves had been treated better, more of them might be staying.”

“They’re better off with us than the Orlesians!”

 _The only place worse than Orlais is the Imperium,_ Erlina didn’t say.

“You might point out to them that the Orlesians are definitely getting out-of-sorts about it.”

“This is one issue over which I _don’t_ think Ferelden would be proud of pissing off Orlais,” Anora said. “Things are changing fast enough. I don’t want to encourage him to interfere in other people’s lands.”

 _You can’t stop him,_ Erlina wanted to say. They were friends, after all, but – she’d already pushed. They didn’t truly argue much, and she didn’t want this to be one of them. But-

 _He won’t listen to you if he doesn’t want to,_ she could warn Anora. _You didn’t grow up with stories of the Dalish. In the big city alienages, not everyone might believe they’re really the remnants of an old nation and not wild bandits, but even that’s cause for admiration. Maybe they say they’re stupid for hoping things will really change, and it’s certainly dangerous, being Dalish – but it’s dangerous being a city elf. At least they don’t live in midst of people who would kill them; and it’s not like living in a city makes it any less likely the shems will hunt you. And in other cities, in places that aren’t full of chevaliers like Val Royeaux or Halamshiral or the like, in Serault and Andoral’s Reach and the further-afield towns, in Ferelden and Nevarra and the Free Marches and Antiva, sometimes Dalish will stop for trade. They’re not so far away. For South Reach and Gwaren and Edgehall, the Dalish have always been close. Those elves **know** they could have something different, if they can escape the walls and guards, if they can leave their families, if they can bear living in the wilderness, if their faith lets them. Most of them don’t, but they **know.**_

_You don’t know what that’s like. What it’s done, to have a Dalish elf stop a Blight and save us all. To have an elf as Arl, to have him be a lord other lords have to look to and keep happy. For you to keep Zevran Revasina close enough to call friend, and treat him such, a city elf who goes armed and the shem lords will always be a little scared of, because of what he is, no matter what Eamon tried to spread about him. That Kallian Tabris has been given a knighthood. When I saw her for the first time, Annie, in her armor and with her sword. The Arl-Commander is Dalish, of course he’s like that. Zevran Revasina is an assassin and a foreigner besides. But Kallian Tabris is Fereldan. She’s from the Denerim alienage. They **know** her. Just like anyone in an alienage, the Tabrises have extended connections across Thedas. Maybe it doesn’t help elves the way it does humans, but it means news gets passed. It’s spreading, Annie. She’s a city elf. So am I. My brother and parents in Verchiel are. My sister got married in Perendale. My aunt is in Cumberland and my father’s cousins are from Markham and Wycome. They’ve been writing me all these years, I know you know that, but you know what they ask? They ask if it’s true, what happens here. I tell them it is, and I send them money enough like I always do so they can write me back and have some more to buy food or candles or medicine or presents for their children. I could show you what they wrote back when I told them about her. I still don’t think you’d understand. You don’t know how far afield Hahren Cyrion was hinting at getting a spouse for Shianni Tabris before she decided on that Dalish craftsman. Those elves the Arl-Commander employs in Denerim will be attracting marriage offers from just as far._

_Elves **want** to come to Ferelden. Other countries don’t want this talked about. Orlais and Wycome and Ansburg have already had decrees restricting some of the news, and I never hear much from the Imperium, but there’s tension in Hasmal. They can do what they want, but nobles gossip, and nobles employ elves. And elves talk to each other. My family shares my news, and the ones who hear that have family elsewhere, and nobody bothers to check elves’ mail, if they even think we can read or write. The best way for elves to get some freedom has always been going to sea. Amaranthine is a port city. So is Denerim. There are enough of us who know. If elves get our way, there won’t be a labor shortage for that long. Maybe it will only be a little better for most of them who come here. The Arl-Commander can’t know about everything, or fix it all. I haven’t been able to. But once you’re here, it’s so much easier to get to Amaranthine, or Denerim, or the Dalish. _

_And if something does happen that’s bad enough, one of us **will** hear about it. One of my informants will tell me. Someone will get word to the Arl-Commander. Ser Tabris’s family will mention it to her. Zevran Revasina will find out – someone might even go to him directly, try to pay him to fix it. **Something** will get done. Not for all of it. But it’s a hope. And if the nobility thinks about it enough, they’ll realize they’ll save themselves a lot of trouble by preventing trouble in the first place. Especially if the Arl-Commander is in Denerim more, like you and his fiancé want him to be. If he’s in Denerim, he can directly confront the lords responsible. If they don’t want a fight, they’ll have to be proactive. Do you think he knows about the law against killing a human to defend an elf? I’m not sure he does, since he hasn’t said anything about it, and so often it’s treated like a law against defending elves at all. Maybe he or we or you can’t get rid of it, but if it’s more trouble than it’s worth to enforce, that’s still something. _

_I’ve been saving since I became a Bard to get my family something better. In Orlais, I didn’t know what that would be, exactly. After your father hired me, it was going to be moving my parents to the Denerim alienage._

_I’d move them to Amaranthine or Vigil’s Keep, now, Anora,_ Erlina didn’t tell her. _I know they’ll be safest there. Even if all you do is not fight him on elves, things could go so well. Please._

“You’re having him host the engagement party because he has the money, and he owes you for how he’s behaved,” she said instead. “People with money hate being told to spend it. If you put giving money to other nobles to help their lands as a way to stay in your good graces, he’d probably focus on how it will keep him from getting yelled at, rather than thinking of it as a political opportunity. He doesn’t seem to be good at recognizing them, anyway.”

* * *

“Do I feel strange?” Theron asked Anders when he escorted the Crow children to the clinic.

“What?” was Anders’s reply. He’d gotten a look at the children and immediately set one of the other mages on them – Sabrisha, the first Warden mage after the Orlesians, from the south of the Frostbacks near the Wilds. Theron wondered if Sabrisha was going to take over the clinic. He was the only other mage who’d shown an aptitude for healing.

“Magically,” Theron clarified as Anders hunted through his supplies.

“Why-”

Theron felt magic wash over him. It eased the discomfort he’d had since the morning.

“You’re _not_ well, Commander,” Sabrisha said. “It’s good Captain Anders is here. I couldn’t fix your spirit.”

“What?” Anders repeated, coming up with half an armful of bottles. “Why would-”

“Spirit Healer.”

“That’s not what that _means,_ it’s just that I heal with the help of a spirit.”

“There’s another way?”

“Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels, Sabrisha-”

“She should have those fixed-”

“-you’re not even _Andrastean,_ don’t- you mean to tell me this whole time you’ve had a spirit healing with you!”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“And you didn’t _say_ anything!”

“It’s how you heal! Why call yourself a _‘spirit healer’_ if you can’t heal spirits!”

“Because it’s a special relationship with a spirit!”

“That’s just mages! Mages work with spirits!”

“No, that’s _spirit healers!_ ”

“Well, the Augur from my father’s Hold would have something to say about _that_ ,” Sabrisha informed him. “Commander, I- I don’t know if we can help you, then.”

“What are you _talking_ about!”

 _“Feel him,”_ Sabrisha said, taking the bottles from Anders. “I’ll start with the children.”

This time, the magic _was_ from Anders.

“Commander _what did you **do**_ with the Crows!”

“It wasn’t the Crows. I talked to Justice-”

_“Oh no.”_

“It wasn’t him either, Anders,” Theron reproved him. “I’m… going to go talk to Merrill. You could come find us after? I _really_ don’t know what’s happening.”

_“Commander-!”_

“The children first, Anders. I’ll be fine until then.”

“You say that _now,_ ” Theron heard Anders say as he closed the clinic door, and set off in search of his sister.

He found her in the Arlessa’s suite. He’d noticed that Vigil’s Keep was very crowded, what with the Wardens here, and it seemed Delilah had decided to have the Arlessa’s suite house whatever family of his happened to be around. Kieran had been moved into Morrigan’s bedroom, with new bedding moved into the drawing room so Nehna and Tanis could have it. Ashalle, Tamlen, Tiar, and Diego had been shoved into the salon so that Marian and Merrill could have the study, so everything was… close, moreso than he was used to, now.

Time was, he, Merrill, Tamlen, and Ashalle could have had visitors in the aravel, and it wouldn’t have seemed cramped to him. Right now, the study seemed too small, and it was just him, Merrill, and Tamlen.

“Theron?”

“Something happened,” he told her, and checked to make sure the door was locked before slipping into the Veil. It was easy, now that he’d done it once. Barely a thought, and he didn’t feel out of place any longer.

“Theron!”

The Vigil was an old, old fortress. Even the great hall, the last major addition to it, predated Calenhad by quite a bit. Generations of living and dying here had made an impression on the Fade the way the Bann’s residence in Riverreach hadn’t. The walls had a sheen of light on them, glittery residue of emotion and memory.

Merrill was _bright,_ in a way he hadn’t expected. The birds in Riverreach had been brighter than the plants, yes, but there was a- it was different. She and Tamlen were both brighter than the walls, and it wasn’t that Merrill was brighter than him, or that one was a different color. It was just… harder than it should have been, to focus on something that wasn’t her. Tamlen he could manage for a bit, but the walls were more of an _impression_ now.

“Huh.”

Things weren’t all blue-white. The area around Merrill showed whatever was near her with the same clarity and detail as if he’d been looking at it normally. But the area seemed _intense_ in a way it otherwise didn’t, despite being rendered in shades of reddish-brown instead of the actual colors.

In Tamlen, there was a shadow to the glow, hiding behind the brightness. Once he tried focusing on _that,_ it was more arresting than Merrill. It was deep, and inside, there was something-

Tamlen’s hand clamped over his mouth.

 _“Stop,”_ his brother hissed. “I _know_ what that is you’re humming, you’re _not_ there yet, don’t you _dare-_ ”

Theron kissed his palm and closed his eyes. The world didn’t go away, the glows were still there, but there were no shadows to them here. Something to remember.

Tamlen removed his hand.

“Theron?” Merrill asked again, and Theron opened his eyes.

“When Anders and Justice were _here,_ and not sharing,” he said. “There was this thing Justice did, where he went partway back to the Fade, and I did it too. I thought I was slipping along with him, because spirits do that sort of thing, so when Justice wasn’t around, I didn’t consider it. But lately I thought about seeing if there was another spirit who could, and I talked to Justice last night, and he said I didn’t need him for this and that I never had, and I went outside to see before anyone else got up, and I didn’t think it was going to work but it does? I don’t think it’s supposed to.”

Merrill tilted her head and looked him over.

“Did he say _why_ it works?”

“He said I feel like a spirit,” Theron told her after a moment. “That I sound like one, in the Fade. That I’m too comfortable there for someone who isn’t. That my edges blend into the background, but _I_ couldn’t see it, so.”

“Okay,” Tamlen said. “All right. _Fine._ ”

He jabbed a finger at him. Merrill shifted to the side to look at him from a new angle. Theron tried to keep them both in his field of vision and failed – but then it extended to encompass them both, the world existing in blue-white ghosts and impressions of life where his physical eyesight failed.

“This is _not_ how I thought we’d start this conversation, but _you_ can’t stay out of the most _incredible_ levels of- Theron?”

Merrill stepped up behind him. He could still see her.

“Do you need to sit down?” she asked.

He’d grabbed onto the edge of the unused desk.

“No, I’m fine,” he said, letting go. “I was trying to look at both of you, and you moved, and I can still _see_ you. It’s weird.”

There was a telling silence.

“Theron, let it go.”

It probably should have felt wrong, seeing like this. It didn’t. It was different.

 _“Theron,”_ she said again, sterner this time.

“I don’t want to,” he admitted quietly. “It feels wrong, now. If I’m not. Like something gets wrenched out of place if I’m not. Like _I’m_ a handspan to the left of where my body is, but I still feel it. I don’t like it. I’m not used to this, but it _feels_ better. Like I’m supposed to…”

He faltered. The look on Tamlen’s face felt like waking up in Marethari’s aravel and having her say they didn’t know where he was.

“Is it the blood magic?” he asked. “It never felt like this the last time.”

“It _shouldn’t_ be,” his sister told him. “Theron – please stop. I’m sorry it hurts, but we don’t know what this is doing to you.”

He didn’t want to. He _didn’t._ But he did.

It was worse this time.

“It helps,” he said, and tried not to cry. “If there’s magic.”

Merrill had come back around. She and Tamlen exchanged a look, and she opened her hands. Wisps glowed into existence, and _this_ was familiar.

It helped, to pull Merrill and Marian’s bedding onto the floor and pile up in it. The press of his siblings was reassuring, and the wisps circled around lazily, poking into corners and coming back around. One of them would deliberately bop into him as it passed by, and Theron smiled at it. The brief closer touch of the Fade was bringing the feeling down to what it had been before and keeping it there.

Merrill lifted a hand, and the same wisp rolled around on her fingers.

“You felt different before that,” she told him, watching the wisp drift towards the ceiling. “When we were talking in camp on Sundermount, I noticed.”

“Like your _soul_ is _bleeding,_ ” Tamlen said. “We were going to _talk_ about that anyway, but I _thought_ we’d be able to save it for being home. But _no._ ”

“I didn’t feel anything like that,” Theron said. “I feel something now, but not like I got hurt.”

“ _Did_ you though?” Tamlen asked him.

Theron thought about it. If it wasn’t the blood magic, then there hadn’t been anything after Justice to change that. Being in the Deep Roads so long hadn’t been good for his _body,_ but jumping between artificial layers of the Fade hadn’t done anything to him that he’d noticed. He explained it to Merrill anyway.

“I don’t _think_ so?” she decided. “You have been beyond the Veil in strange ways, but it shouldn’t have _damaged_ you. Most of the times it was being forced asleep basically, right?”

“It was that way at Kinloch Hold and in the Blackmarsh,” he agreed. “In Amgarrak we were awake.”

“But you weren’t _really_ there,” Merrill pressed. “Were there spirits?”

“No, just the Harvester bits.”

“Then it probably wasn’t that. I’d have to look at it to be sure, but that doesn’t sound like a good idea, I was in the Roads and it’s not very nice.”

 _“Why,”_ Tamlen demanded, pushing himself up to look over Theron at her. Theron felt much the same way, but contained himself to clutching at her arm.

“The expedition Varric and his brother put together,” Merrill explained. “It was them and the other people they’d hired and Marian and Anders and me. We saw some very interesting things, but I could have done without the red lyrium.”

“I get lost for _five years-_ ”

“We got out all right in the end.”

“And after me and Theron, you thought _walking into_ darkspawn territory was a good idea!”

“I didn’t think it was a good idea,” Merrill said. “I thought that it was where my friends were going, and because of what Marethari had been saying, I wouldn’t be able to go back to Sabrae if _they_ didn’t come back.”

“You’ll always have somewhere to be,” Theron promised her.

“Hmm,” she agreed, and tapped on his chest. “ _You,_ though, brother. What else? _Something_ happened to your soul between leaving Sabrae and finding us again.”

“I Joined the Wardens.”

“I’ve met a bunch of Wardens by now, and even Anders with Justice didn’t feel like you. He felt like the raggedy bits that mean you can get to the magic were woven into something, which was a very strange feeling, but it wasn’t _bleeding._ ”

“Justice seemed to think I could do magic if I tried.”

Both his siblings perked up.

“Did you?” Merrill asked.

“It didn’t seem like a good idea,” he said. “With the humans. I mean, the _Chantry_ humans. It’s not safe.”

“No Chantry here,” Tamlen said. “Come on, try something. Merrill?”

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “I thought maybe you’d be a healer if you were a mage, but that was before everything, and there’s nothing for you to heal here anyway. And we’re inside, so there’s no plants…”

“Everyone’s said my father was best at countering magic,” Theron reminded her.

“And I’m not throwing spells at you to see what happens,” she said. “Maybe- well, I _could_ cut myself and see, I could heal myself after if you couldn’t.”

“Fire’s easy,” Tamlen said.

“It’s not that much, actually,” Merrill disagreed. “It takes a lot of energy, comparatively, you’re better with something else. It’s just that pulling too much magic happens more often if you don’t know what you’re doing, or get scared, or do it on accident enough for something _to_ happen, so it’s common with people who are starting out. Lightning and ice are actually the easiest. Ice is just hard water and magic is kind of watery already anyway, and with lightning you’re just marking a spot. The lightning just sort of happens then, the difficult part is getting it to go where you want _after._ Not _very_ difficult, mind you, it’s just a matter of speed and aim.”

“Not for you, then,” Tamlen said, elbowing Theron. “Your aim is terrible. The absolute _worst,_ in the whole clan.”

“I _could_ be better if I get to pick where it hits without worrying about getting it there.”

“Yeah right.”

“Try ice,” Merrill told him. “If it goes wrong either nothing will happen or it’ll melt afterwards. And I’m here for anything else.”

He focused on a desk leg and thought very hard about it, the way he’d learned as a small child when Hahren Paivel and Keeper Marethari had given them lessons on what to do if one of them started doing magic. It was the first responsibility children got, in the clans – as soon as you were old enough to understand and remember, you were old enough to be taught about magic.

“There’s _something_?” he finally said, after the desk stayed un-iced. “I don’t know if it’s magic or if I’m imagining it. But I can’t make it do anything.”

“Do what you were before, and try it again.”

Stepping into the Veil got him a lot of excited wisps whizzing at him, but no ice.

“Cup your hands,” Merrill ordered him, and then dumped a flame into them. Like this, he could feel her sustaining the fire, but-

“Are you-?” he asked, shifting the flame from one hand to another.

“I’m keeping it going,” she said. “You’re moving it. Come back and see if it still works.”

Slipping out of the Veil was _much_ nicer like this. The fire flickered wildly for a few seconds, but otherwise nothing changed.

Except Merrill made a _very_ excited noise.

“That’s _you_ now! You came back and it-!”

Theron looked down at the flame he was empowering.

“I don’t think I can stop it?” he said after a moment. Merrill snuffed it for him, then tackled him into Tamlen. They all fell over in a heap, at least until Tamlen pushed them off.

“It’s not very useful if he can’t start or stop it by himself,” he pointed out.

“But he can do _something,_ ” Merrill enthused. “He couldn’t before, and now-”

“Only sort of.”

“ _Tamlen_ this means we might be able to _make mages._ ”

“Not if _he_ doesn’t know how it happened.”

“I was supposed to die,” Theron said. “That’s what killing an Archdemon does. If someone who’s not a Warden does it, the soul grabs onto the nearest Tainted thing and then you’re just doing it all over again. But if a Warden does it, then the closest thing is that Warden, who is _dying_ because they just stabbed a god, so the Archdemon goes along and doesn’t come back. But Morrigan had something. So I didn’t. I just had a god in me for a very little bit.”

Merrill flopped back onto the floor.

“We can’t replicate _divine intervention!_ ”

“Tamlen-”

His brother unlocked the door and walked out. Theron started to stand to go after him – but then Morrigan’s indignant: _“Unhand me!”_ came from out in the salon.

“Tamlen!”

He stomped back in, herding Morrigan in front of him, and yanked the door shut behind them.

 _“You,”_ he accused. “Fucked up my brother!”

_“Excuse you?”_

“It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t agreed-”

Tamlen pointed a silencing finger at him.

“Don’t mistake this, I’d rather have him alive than dead,” he continued. “But it _fucked up his soul._ ”

“We don’t _know-_ ”

“Did he feel like this before the Archdemon?” Merrill asked her. “He didn’t feel like this before he left Sabrae.”

“ _What_ is-”

“Feel him with magic,” Merrill prompted.

Another touch of magic against him, and Morrigan flinched back.

“No,” she said. “No he did not.”

“You _fucked him up._ ”

“Tamlen!” Theron snapped at him. “Leave her alone!”

_“She did.”_

“No she didn’t, she _saved my life,_ ” he said crossly. “ _I’m_ the one who killed the Archdemon, if I hadn’t this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You told them, I see,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms.

“Not _everything,_ ” Tamlen said. “If a Warden dying takes it along, where did _this_ one go! Is it dead? Did _you_ take it? And how did you know how to _do_ this, anyway!”

“‘Twas my _mother’s_ idea, and _her_ plan,” Morrigan informed him. “ _I_ thought it best to deny her what she had wished, and your brother was agreeable.”

“Oh dear,” said Merrill. “Theron-”

“The reason Marian needed to get up on Sundermount was because we’d killed her. That was her backup plan.”

_“Oh no.”_

“Look, she might be Asha’belannar, but she’s _terrible._ And also I didn’t know it was her until after Kirkwall.”

“But why would she want an Old God?”

“For it’s power,” Morrigan said. “Towards what end, I know not.”

“So you _do_ have it!”

“That’s a _soul_ you’re talking about, Tamlen,” Theron protested. “You don’t _own_ someone else’s, you know that!”

“Brother,” Merrill said. “ _‘Hathen’_ – you _didn’t_.”

“Oh for-!” Tamlen exclaimed, his disgust clear. “I cannot _believe_ you! Why would you do that!”

“It’s not a bad name!”

 _“Your son-”_ he lowered his voice to an angry hiss. “Your son is a _god!_ A _Tevene_ god!”

“He’s my _son!_ ”

_“A. Tevene. God.”_

“He’s a _child!_ ” Theron said. “He’s _my son_ and _your nephew_ and he is _family_ and we don’t _tell_ people because of _exactly this!_ ”

“He’s a child _for now,_ ” Tamlen argued. _“_ He won’t be forever, and who says it’s not lying-”

“Don’t _you_ dare,” he spat. “ _Don’t you dare. My son_ is not an _‘it’_. _My son_ is a _child_ who has _done nothing._ He is _not_ an Archdemon. He may know some things Urthemiel did, but that’s _not_ who he is. He’s going to grow up, and he’s going to be a _good person_ with powerful magic and _you_ are going to leave him alone about it because if you don’t, I _will_ be seeing you in a challenge field, brother, because _you don’t hurt children._ ”

“Theron,” Merrill cut in gently, and Theron turned away from his brother’s hurt glare. “What will you do if he _does_ remember?”

“He’ll still be my son. I don’t know what I could _do_ to help with remembering an Archdemon and Urthemiel, but I’d try. I’m not going to _leave_ him.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“You get into _so much shit,”_ Tamlen spoke up. “I just don’t want you getting into _more,_ okay? I don’t want you getting hurt!”

Theron sighed, and reached for his brother’s hands.

“I want you to be safe too,” he said. “But you have to leave Hathen alone about it. And treat him the same.”

“Remember that ‘tis not only _him_ you would have to answer to. And my son has _more_ than enough power to make you regret.”

“He _wouldn’t_ though,” Theron said, giving Morrigan a look. “He’s a good child.”

“He is,” Merrill agreed. “Is he still a god, do you think?”

“I think we would have noticed.”

“It’s just that _I’ve_ noticed that I don’t know what the gold magic he does is. Well, it’s _magic._ I’ve seen him do things with it I’d expect, only feeling very powerful. But magic is about souls, and if his is a god, and he just _knows_ things, and he can always tell where you are and how you’re doing… he’s not very old yet. I was thinking, about your magic, that Anders’s Tranquil friend was better while Justice was there, so maybe the more you do it the closer you’ll get, and if we put a spirit in someone without magic it might do something, and so maybe Hathen just has to grow into it again.”

“ _‘Your magic’_ ,” Morrigan repeated. “Just what _have_ you been doing in here?”

“I might be becoming a mage?” Theron told her. “As a side effect of that. But right now I can’t really do anything, which is disappointing, it was exciting thinking about finally being one even if I’m in a really bad place to get magic.”

“Explain this better,” Morrigan demanded of Merrill, and listened to the explanation with a slight scowl.

“I would say it should _not_ have caused this,” she said. “But it has never been done before. I can only say that nothing in the ritual would lead me to assume it would.”

There was a knocking on the door.

“Commander?”

Anders.

“Don’t tell him,” Theron told Merrill. “About this, yes, I already asked him if I felt wrong. But don’t bring Morrigan or Hathen into it.”

* * *

Something was up.

Well, a _lot_ of things were up, but only one he didn’t know about. Conveniently, he only needed one person to talk to about it all.

The door to Theron’s office was locked, but a knock and a word opened it. He relocked it behind him, because Theron had the Joining chalice and the jars of blood out and _yeah,_ there was a good reason the door had been locked.

“So?”

“I’m going to Join the Crows tonight?” Theron answered. “Vlas Makari and Irina Trevelyan too.”

“Might as well get it over with, I suppose,” Alistair agreed. “But really, Crows? It’s not the _worst_ recruitment decision you’ve ever made, or even the weirdest, but-”

“They want to,” Theron said. “And we can help them.”

“I get that we were good for Zevran, but not _everybody_ you pick up is going to turn out like him. Or Nate.”

He hadn’t expected his friend’s mouth to press together in an unhappy line like that, or the furrowing of his brow.

“Theron?”

“You remember,” he said, pushing his hands flat against the table and staring into the empty chalice. “In Antiva City, the Crow I let go? Who told us what was going on?”

Well this wasn’t going to be good.

“Yes?”

“Daganu Valisti,” Theron said. “I saw her again at Caer Dughlean. She was- her _job_ in the Crows, Alistair, it was the _children._ She- she kept them imprisoned, she _starved_ them, she beat them, she _killed them,_ and anyone who survived her and the others ended up an apprentice in one of the Houses and when we got to Caer Dughlean, they _had_ some children, and they’d just- they’d just-”

“You got them out, though,” Alistair said, remembering the children in Anders’s clinic.

 _“She locked them in a room to die,”_ he said angrily though his tears. “Down in the dungeons, and I _smelled them_ and I thought it had been where they’d been dumping their _waste_ because they’d been _shut in_ with their own _filth_ and the _rotting corpses_ of the ones who had _died_ because they weren’t given _food_ or _water_ and they were _expected,_ the _Crows were expecting,_ that any of them who did survive would make it out because they would have _eaten_ the ones who-”

His hands fisted on the table and he leaned forward. Alistair stepped around the desk and put an arm around him and oh, shit, nope, _bad idea,_ Theron was _so close_ – but he couldn’t back out, now. He’d committed. And Theron needed this.

“That’s not your fault,” Alistair told him. “The Crows would have just gotten someone else to do it.”

“Zevran wasn’t even _surprised,_ ” Theron said miserably. “They said they did it because they didn’t have enough food for everyone to _poison_ some of it to give the children like they _usually did_ and they tried to _explain it_ to me and _apologize_ for things not being _up to standard_ because they thought I’d _hurt them_ for it and they were _children._ ”

“You got them out,” Alistair reminded him.

“There were more of them five days ago,” Theron said. “I, we, Zevran told them to let the children out. We got them clean and fed but they were already sick and we didn’t have any mage healers because the Chantry is _stupid_ about magic and _they shouldn’t have died,_ they were just _sick,_ there _should have been a healer-!_ ”

“People do die from getting sick, Theron.”

 _“Not in the clans they don’t!”_ he cried. “Not unless _everyone_ is sick and there aren’t enough mages to treat everyone or the _mages_ get sick or the Keeper dies and _they shouldn’t have died! We should have had a **healer!**_ ”

He pounded one of his fisted hands on the desk. Alistair spared a concerned glance to make sure Theron hadn’t cracked the wood before pulling the hand away, working his thumb under Theron’s fingers to encourage him to unclench them.

“There _should have been_ mage healers,” he continued. “The Crows _had_ people and _they could have been_ but as soon as one of their _slaves_ showed magic they made them _Tranquil_ and made them work in the Archive and the _Archivist_ was an abomination that d’Evaliste Grandmaster made after the Fourth Blight and he took a _child_ and _mutilated_ them and stuck a Knowledge spirit in them and it was _blood magic,_ the _tattoos,_ the _compradi_ ones and the graduation tattoos that’s _blood magic_ so the Archivist would _always know_ what _any_ Crow knew and the _only reason_ they didn’t come for Satheraan was because _no one ever asked_ and that’s _all_ it would have taken except Satheraan killed Eoman Arainai and that made _him_ Grandmaster and the Archivist _knew_ and it had been _planning things for him,_ so that _he’d_ be Grandmaster and the Crows would be _to his liking_ when he came back and I _killed it_ so the tattoos don’t help anyone now but I _know_ Satheraan’s not comfortable with it he hasn’t said anything but it’s _slaving blood magic_ and Anora pressured him into being Grandmaster _properly_ so now he _is_ and _I_ hate it and _he_ hates it but he’s putting up with it because it means he can _help them_ and I hate _them_ and I hate _her_ and if the Crows want to be Wardens then they _can be_ and if they’re _here_ I can make sure they’re _not hurting anybody!_ ”

“You had a really terrible trip,” Alistair said, after what seemed like an appropriate length of silence. “What are you going to do with the children?”

“I don’t know yet, I just couldn’t leave them _there._ ”

“Yeah, no. Just warn the rest of us if you decide to adopt them? And maybe get your own house built. Or add on to the family quarters, Delilah would be happy for more space.”

Theron sniffed and leaned further into him. Just a tilt of the head and Alistair could drop a kiss-

 _Why_ did he do this to himself?

“So, I think that explains what Anders was worked up about and why Zevran said he heard the two of you shut up with Morrigan and your siblings,” he said. “But if you’ve got an explanation about why Merrill tracked me down and told me that actually, no, she’s _not_ going to Seheron, she’s staying with you, and she wouldn’t explain _why,_ I’d like to hear it.”

Theron sighed.

“There’ve been side effects, to the Archdemon,” he said, and Alistair went cold all over. He had no idea he’d tensed up and clutched at his friend until Theron rubbed his bicep soothingly and said: “No, not like that, it’s not the Calling.”

“Don’t _say it_ like that then!”

“It did something to my soul,” Theron said, and that wasn’t really any _better._ “I didn’t realize it until last night, but Merrill felt it in Kirkwall. I got all torn up, and she said it’s like I’m bleeding into the Fade, which isn’t how it works even for mages, who she says are raggedy at the edges of their souls and that’s where they meet the Fade. I talked to Justice last night because I thought I’d try the spirit warrior thing with him again, but he said I’d never needed him, and that I’ve always been comfortable enough in the Fade to be mistaken for a spirit – _he_ thought that’s what I was, before he saw me with Nathaniel and Oghren and Anders in the Fade in the Blackmarsh – and he thought I might be able to do magic. I didn’t believe him but then I slipped into the Veil after I woke up and it was _easy_ and Merrill tried some things and so far it looks like I can’t start or stop a spell but I can keep one going. We don’t know what’s going to happen with me or if it’s safe to keep slipping into the Veil or if it’ll make any difference in the end, because after I did it the once and came back I’ve _felt wrong._ ”

“Did you-”

“There’s no spirits. Merrill _and_ Morrigan _and_ Anders _and_ Sabrisha all looked at me, I’m just me. But I don’t _feel_ right being here, anymore. Without magic I feel _wrong_ and _bad_ and if I could walk around wrapped in the Veil without bringing Templars or making people uncomfortable I _would_ because it hurts _not to._ ”

“Andraste’s ashes, now _I_ don’t want to go to Seheron!” Alistair swore. This time, he held Theron tighter on purpose. “I can’t leave you like this!”

“You have to go,” Theron told him. “For your father.”

“Sod my father, I never met the man!” he said, and… did not feel as bad about saying that he thought he should. It was true. He’d never met Maric. Theron was right here. “What if I come back and you’ve- disappeared into the Fade! Or become a spirit! Or gotten _possessed!_ Or-”

 _Died,_ he couldn’t say.

“I’ll be all right.”

“You can’t promise that!”

“I can,” Theron said, voice firm, confident in a way that was entirely unwarranted. “I haven’t properly married Satheraan yet. Hathen isn’t grown. My clan is almost dead and they _need_ me. So do the People, even if for only so long as it takes to establish diplomacy and agree to a proper treaty. And I need to be here when you come back, because you’re _going_ to come back from Seheron, and I’m going to be there for you if you find Maric dead or he’s not good to you, and either way I’m going to yell at him, because at the _very least_ he left you with Eamon and Isolde and _they_ weren’t good to you.”

“Theron, _please_ don’t yell at King Maric if we bring him home alive.”

_“I will.”_

_“No.”_

“I killed Flemeth, even if it didn’t stick. I punched Nehna. I’ll yell at Maric.”

“And Zev didn’t _want_ you hitting his mother!”

“And _you’re_ assuming I won’t yell at Maric’s ashes or whatever you find to bring back.”

_“Theron.”_

“I love you,” Theron said, and _bad, very bad,_ they were _still hugging_ and he said _that._ “You deserve better than you had. He _should_ have kept you if he wanted you, and if he didn’t then he had an _obligation_ and a duty to make sure you ended up with someone who did. And you didn’t.”

“Duncan wanted me,” Alistair said uncomfortably.

“But he didn’t give you to Duncan, did he?” his friend asked, pulling away. _Finally._ Alistair wanted him close again. “I defended you against Goldanna. If I could go with you to Seheron, I would.”

“You’d go to Seheron even with the Magisters?”

There was fear lurking in his eyes, but Theron still said: “Yes.”

Alistair resolutely ignored the fluttering in his stomach.

“I mean it, Theron,” he said, and hoped his voice didn’t betray him. “No yelling.”

“Strong words.”

“No,” Alistair insisted. “Think about what Zevran would say if he heard the Hero of Ferelden had yelled at King Maric the Savior on the Amaranthine docks.”

“I’d do it in private.”

Alistair sighed.

“Someday,” he said, and his gut twisted. He didn’t want to think about this, but Theron kept getting into _situations_ and it needed to be said. “Stubbornness won’t be enough.”

“That day will be long coming.”

He couldn’t promise that, but Alistair liked hearing it anyway.

“I don’t know if you heard,” Alistair said. “But your mother’s been asking when you’ll go to Hallarenis’haminathe. Erlina too. I told them you’d probably want to go as soon as you got back from Caer Dughlean.”

“Well, if we’re going to get things started, I _will_ have to go soon,” Theron said, and turned his attention back to the desk. The jars of blood were carefully unscrewed, and the amounts measured out. “Not with Anora at first, though, did you tell Erlina that?”

“Hadn’t thought to,” Alistair admitted, and noticed a lack on the desk. He went to the locked cupboard the Joining was kept in and looked through the shelves. “I suppose it would be rude to just turn up with her.”

“I have to put her offer to the Arlath’vhen,” Theron said. “I’ll have to tell them that I told _her_ about the eluvians. They _won’t_ like that but it might help that she figured out we had _something_ but she only knew because Morrigan and the others came rushing up to see me so it’ll still be kind of my fault. She’s marrying Rosaire, and _I_ like him, but he’s _Orlesian_ and he’s interested in us and he’s not trying to steal but it’s still going to go over poorly, _especially_ with my clan, because his father’s sitting on our old lands.”

“What, really?” Alistair asked, bringing over what he’d found.

“Eziores is properly Esa’ir, and somewhere in the mountains on the western end of Gherlen’s Pass sits Sabrae’s Choice. We’ve lost the exact location, but we locked it up magically behind us, so it’s still there. The stories say you could overlook the Pass from the walls and it wasn’t far from Esa’ir so there’s only so large an area it _could_ be in, but it’s not like we’ve had the safety to go looking for it.”

Alistair tried to hand him the lyrium. He hesitated.

“Theron?”

“It feels-” his friend said quietly, hand hovering. “I want it, I think. The magic-”

“Should I do it?”

“It won’t hurt you?”

“It’s basically a mage’s dose, I can handle it. If it’s tempting you-”

“I know better than that,” Theron said, but moved aside anyway. Alistair quickly added the correct amount and returned the lyrium to the cupboard.

“Sounds like Hallarenis’haminathe won’t be the best time, either,” Alistair said. “Try not to duel anyone?”

“If they don’t do anything worth it, I won’t,” Theron promised, gently swirling the Joining together. “But I think it will be good. For me. Not the ones like Lavellan’s First who already despise me, or the ones who’ll be mad about Anora and Rosaire. But there are plenty of mages there, and we use magic as a habit. The Brecilian is right there, too. I think it’ll be easier.”

“I hope so,” Alistair said, and removed the jars of the blood to the cupboard, too. “Well – time to get this over with?”

Theron looked pensively down at the Joining.

“I suppose we should.”

* * *

Six Crows survived the Joining. It was fewer than they’d arrived with, but not by much. Zevran hadn’t felt that interacting with the Crows who’d left with them was a good idea, but that had been before. They were Wardens now, and had protection from him.

“It is good to see you alive,” he told them. It was the morning after, and he’d found them in the hall the Wardens stationed at the Vigil had appropriated for their own. It was an odd sort of space, with a large depressed area a couple feet deeper than the rest; but it connected to the kitchens. The servants brought the food directly, left it on the tables on the raised outer level, and the Wardens seated on the inner could take what they liked. “Are you well?”

Mahendra watched him silently, which was expected. Badeer Martell didn’t answer him either, keeping his eyes on the table. That was a bit disappointing. They’d both been courtesans, and while Badeer hadn’t said anything and Zevran hadn’t asked, Badeer had always seemed like he’d been enduring the work, unable to find even a bit of pleasure in it as the rest of them had. It made some sense to him why he was here.

“Comparatively,” Tiyarin Ducos said. Of all the Crows who had come, this was the one who had surprised him the most. He knew the man by reputation – the Crows’ master poisoner, the best of the generation. Just as the Crows had told stories of Zevran Arainai, they would have told stories of Tiyarin Ducos. “We survived.”

“That you did,” Zevran agreed. “May I sit?”

Ducos gestured to the seat next to him.

“Of course, Grandmaster.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he said, taking it. “You are Wardens. You do not answer to me.”

“But you are,” Mahendra said.

“But I do not require it, nor expect it.”

“His Arlship Commander is yours,” Vaisvar d’Evaliste said. He had a silent partner in Jehina d’Evaliste. They both looked Seheri, but the physical similarities went beyond that. Zevran had suspicions about their true relationship, particularly because he had found one Tranquil in the Archives who answered to an actual name and had a distinct sense of self – Jaimen Kato, Seheri, old enough to have grown children. And there was the mysteriously-healthy child who had appeared with the ones they’d rescued from Caer Doughlean. A toddler by name of Sipara. Seheri again.

But Vaisvar and Jehina hadn’t said anything, so he wasn’t going to.

“He is simply _‘Commander’_ to you, now,” Zevran corrected. “And that does not mean I have any say in the Wardens, or command. I follow him, as the others do; and I have fought with them and will again, no doubt. But none of them take orders from me, even when I pretend at being one of them.”

“You pretend to be a Warden?” Badeer asked, and Zevran gave his old colleague an assuring smile.

“When I was hiding from the Crows, it could be a prudent course of action,” he explained. “It began as a way to dissuade an interloper from interfering with me while Theron was gone for a time, and we used it again in other situations. Though I suppose there would be little point to it now. Perhaps the next time we journey to the Roads – it would be a shame to soil my other set.”

“There are darkspawn,” Mahendra said.

“And I did not sit safe behind city walls during the Blight. I have killed plenty of darkspawn in my time, and it has not bested me yet.”

“What are they like?”

That was Nabrin Ibarra. Zevran didn’t know anything about him, and simply shrugged.

“Mere words do not quite suffice. They are disgusting, brutal, and dangerous. Faster, stronger, and hardier than they have any right to be – but so are you now. Otherwise… nothing they do, even the most heinous, will be anything you have not seen before. Or been threatened with.”

“It’s a strange thing,” Ducos mused, idly examining his hands. “A fortifying poison. How does it work?”

“That, you would have to ask someone else. If you are hoping for writing on the subject… I do not know what there is.”

“And if I wish to do my own studies?”

Zevran gave him a sharp look.

“That depends entirely on the what and the how,” he told the poisoner. “Many of the experiments the Crows would have allowed, the Commander will _not._ ”

Ducos shrugged languidly, seemingly unconcerned. Zevran wondered if he should tell the senior Wardens to keep an eye on him.

“Can they be poisoned?”

“I have little experience in the matter, but given the difficulties of poisoning Wardens, I would say not very effectively. As I know it, the Taint overrides most everything. You will not catch sick, for example, unless your condition is truly dire.”

“Useful.”

Zevran eyed the table. There wasn’t enough here.

“If you are to keep up your condition, you _must_ eat,” he told them. “When you are hungry, eat until you are full. Sometimes, even if you are not hungry, you need to. If you do not keep yourself properly fed, the Taint will begin eating _you._ In the field, perhaps you will have to go without on occasion. It will not harm you immediately, but it is _not_ good for you, and you should not push it. The kitchens bring this much food for a reason.”

“There was enough,” Badeer said. Zevran raised his eyebrows at him in disbelief, but didn’t push. They would adjust eventually, either by habit or because the hunger could not be ignored when there was no punishment to enforce it.

“There is always something in the kitchens, should you need it,” he told them, and let the subject drop. “Do you have your assignments?”

“The Lord-Captain asked us if we would consider the mission,” Ducos said.

“I am going,” Mahendra said immediately.

Zevran smiled at her.

“You will be with some of the most accomplished Wardens, then. They will be able to tell you anything you need to know about.”

“I don’t think I’m suited for it,” Badeer said.

“Then you do not have to go. With your skillset-”

“I don’t want the Wardens to use my skillset!” Badeer cut him off angrily, then flinched into himself as he realized what he’d done, eyes dropping again, entire body stiff from the effort not to tremble.

“They will not, Badeer,” Zevran told him softly. “Not like that. The killing and the sneaking, yes. The lying and deception, if it is needed. But not the rest. I suppose if it seemed relevant, you could offer; but they will not order nor expect it of you. There is no need for it against darkspawn, and any other trouble you have should be better solved by persuasive authority or a sharp edge. No one will know more than that you left the Crows unless you wish to tell them.”

The disbelieving silence was expected.

“Tools are best used when you know their functions,” Mahendra said.

“You are _people_ and not _things,_ ” Zevran said firmly. “Theron knows what I know of you, because he is your Commander and I told him. _He_ will not say more than that you were Crows and will need support, patience, and the time to adjust, unless he has your permission. _I_ will not say any more to him than what I have already without your permission, unless you are being hurt or hurting others outside of your assignments. You are Wardens now. You have a right to the loyalty, protection, and respect of your peers and officers, providing you have done nothing so against the purpose of your new Order that they must denounce you.”

“And what are those things?” Ducos asked.

“There is no set list,” Zevran said – and caught sight of Alistair heading towards them. Time to finish up then. “Generally, unless you are defending yourself or others, or killing darkspawn, do nothing you would not want done to you. If you are unsure if something is allowed, _ask._ The others you work with, your commanding officers, a Sister if you feel comfortable, _me._ The Crows treated you poorly and lied to you, and it is _not your fault_ that you may not know what is the right thing to do. You are only obligated to learn.”

Alistair was close enough for conversation now.

“Am I-?”

“Do you need me?”

“Entrance hall, when you’re ready,” Alistair told him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Your letters got answered.”

Zevran stood.

“Take my place, then. Make them feel welcome, answer their questions.”

“I can do that,” Alistair agreed, and as Zevran walked off, he heard him say: “Hey, is this all you’ve eaten? You need a _lot_ more than that, go get more.”

It wasn’t a far walk to the entrance hall, and he spent the time wondering which of the people he’d written had answered him.

“Bela!” he greeted her, sweeping her up in a hug. “Look at you! _Very-_ ”

She was sniffling into his shoulder.

“Isabela?”

“You’re _here._ ”

“Yes, yes I am – Isabela, what is troubling you?”

“ _You_ were, you stupid ass!” she exclaimed, pounding a fist into his back. “With the news from Antiva-”

He could think of plenty of news from Antiva, but none that would have put him in a worrying position.

“Which news out of Antiva?”

“The _Crows,_ Zev!” Isabela said. She was blinking more than normal, the bridge of her nose crinkling with the effort of not crying. “Claudio Valisti died and his brother finally went back to Antiva, and he’s still only a prince but Estefan Fulgendez has been acting as _King_ – he started hunting Crows! Him and the Grand Cleric! There are mercenaries and Templars and mages all over the City, getting Crows to string up in Executioner’s Plaza and at the docks and they’re moving out into Treviso and Salle – there was a _riot_ in Afsaama, they got their hands on a couple of Crows and tore them apart after Prince Estefan and the Grand Cleric set fire to the Crow Quarter and killed anyone they caught coming out! There’s a bounty anybody can claim so long as they produce a dead Crow! There were mercenary companies coming in hoping for a big pay day when I was sitting in port in Rialto and the City, making noise in the dock neighborhoods so you’d hear about me, because until I had to take a job to make my crew happy and went to Kirkwall to ask Varric to find you and get you out and he gave me your letter _I_ thought _you_ were _still in Antiva!_ ”

“Ah,” Zevran said, and took her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I knew there were Crows leaving Antiva, but I had not heard of this. I am sorry, Bela.”

“You’d _better_ be sorry!”

“I assume I owe you now?”

“You _bet_ you do,” she said, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. It was a very nice blue, long and flattering on her. “What’ve you got?”

“Chocolate? Tea? Whatever is in the wine cellars.”

“You make that chocolate yourself and get me a good liquor to put in it, then _maybe_ I’ll forgive you.”

Zevran intercepted a servant and asked them to bring a bottle of rum and the necessaries for chocolate up to the room he had in mind, then hooked his arm in Isabela’s to lead her upstairs.

“I have not been in Antiva since before Wintersend, Isabela. I am sorry I did not think to write. We had to go immediately to court and things have been… stressful.”

“More stressful than _Antiva?_ ”

“Theron has yet to properly translate his skills into non-Dalish politics,” Zevran told her as they ascended. “It is frustrating and causes problems. We arrived at court _months_ late because of his lack of knowledge! He cannot speak to the Queen without offending her! He finds trouble where there should _be none,_ because he creates it!”

“Does he now?”

“He punched Eamon Guerrin in the Landsmeet,” he lamented, remembering that day. Of everything that had happened, it was the most pleasant to think on. “Right out of his chair, in front of the entire rest of the nobility; and then beat his brother into the street within two minutes in the answering duel!”

“I don’t know, Zev,” Isabela said, her usual cheer making a valiant rallying effort. “Sounds like he’s fitting in with the Fereldans _perfectly._ ”

“He is _not._ ”

“Yeah? Why’d he punch another Arl?”

“He was-”

Zevran sighed, because he knew his friend too well.

“-defending my honor and good character.”

“Oh, _was he?_ ”

“Eamon Guerrin and his wife thought to discredit Theron by airing my history with the Crows.”

“What an ass. I hope he gets what’s coming to him. I could-”

“He’s dead.”

“ _Is_ he now?”

“I didn’t do it,” Zevran told her. They’d arrived at the room – the rum and necessities had preceded them. He made certain there were no lingering servants and that the door was closed before continuing. “Officially, no one knows why. Unofficially, I am certain that general wisdom holds I absolutely did it. Secretly, I know, and Theron knows, and the Queen and Eamon Guerrin’s brother and his wife’s family, that he was trying to hire Crows to kill me, and the Crows took exception to his tone and his targets _very strongly._ ”

“Well damn,” Isabela said. “What a way to go, though. That must have been one of the last contracts they ever acted on. Should’ve guessed from the name.”

“How do you mean?”

“ _Ea_ mon, _Eo_ man. Entitled asses are the same the world over.”

He had noticed the similarity before, but Isabela pointing it out made him smile slightly as he began to make the chocolate.

“So,” she said, putting her boots up on the table and tipping her hat back. “How have things been _besides_ that? It can’t _all_ have been bad. Know how things have been going with Hawke? I dropped her and the family off a couple months ago, you know.”

“Leandra has become Bann of Lothering-”

“Good for her.”

“-and Bethany is engaged to Fergus Cousland.”

_“No!”_

“Very much _yes,_ ” he replied with a grin. “He is amusingly smitten with her.”

“How much did Hawke yell?”

“I never heard anything.”

“I’ll have to ask her. How long does the mail take to Lothering?”

“She’s here, actually. She and Anders are going on the mission.”

“So about this mysterious mission-”

“ _Very_ well paid, very secret, completely deniable.”

“Sounds like a story.”

“How willing are you to go to Seheron?”

 _That_ made her take her boots off the table and sit forward.

“ _Seheron?_ Past the _Qunari?_ ”

“Very _briefly_ to Seheron. Most of the journey should be getting there and back. Ideally, the landfall will be no more than two or three days.”

“Me? Not so much. My crew? Depends on the pay. It’s a war zone, you know.”

“We are not unaware.”

“Sabrae paid in lyrium to get them and the stuff they looted from the Gallows to Gwaren, is all I’m saying.”

Zevran put down what he was working on to stare at her.

“You took Sabrae out of Kirkwall?”

“After they’d looted the Gallows,” Isabela confirmed, self-satisfied. “Two chests of refined lyrium. _Big_ chests. Reason why I could afford that long of a shore leave in Antiva. The crew got restless, not _broke._ ”

“Thank you for bringing them.”

She waved him off.

“Couldn’t make your man sad, could I? I’ve seen his face. And I thought _Merrill_ was good at pleading eyes.”

Zevran went back to preparing the chocolate.

“Do you want payment in lyrium? That could be arranged.”

“Wouldn’t say no to _some_ lyrium. Lots of money for little space in the hold and all that – but I throw around too much and the Carta gets touchy, you know how it is. Something less attention-grabbing for the rest. Coin, favors, information – wouldn’t say no to your man’s offer of employment either, so long as I’m busting Armada captains who ignore payoffs or take slaves.”

“Completely reasonable.”

“ _Seriously,_ though, Zev – what’s this about?”

“You take a group as quickly as possible to Seheron and back without being caught.”

“Zev.”

“Smuggling, essentially. I know you are good at it.”

“ _Zev,_ come _on._ ”

“The Crows,” he said, and the memory of Isabela being proud of him on Sundermount closed his throat.

“Zev- if they’re-”

He shook his head and handed her her chocolate.

“I killed Eoman Arainai and that made me Grandmaster, though no one knew. Then, I was seen and known in Antiva, and when my friends came to save me, it pushed the Crows far enough to fall to pieces. A number of _compradi_ came to- to submit themselves to me, and brought information as a bribe for my good graces – and the Queen’s. They delivered the contract bought by one Aurelian Titus for the live delivery of Maric Theirin, along with the information leading to his fortress on Seheron.”

“Well damn.”

“This is a rescue and vengeance mission. You take the group to Titus’s fortress, they bring Maric or his remains home. And also, I believe, Titus’s head.”

Isabela ran a hand over her eyes and took a drink of her chocolate.

“Zev, sweetheart-”

“If it is too much, there is a captain in Rialto who owes-”

She waved a hand at him.

“-if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Hawke and Anders, I wouldn’t do it.”

“So you are doing it?”

“Can’t leave my friends to some cut-rate braggart who’d never get his head out of his ass long enough to keep from running them straight into a warship. Qunari _or_ Vints, sooner sink my own ship.”

“Thank you, Isabela.”

“You won’t be thanking me once you know how much my crew is going to need to go along with this,” Isabela warned. “But enough serious business for now, it’s a downer, this is worse than drunk Hawke – _something_ good has to have happened since last Kingsway.”

The smile bloomed slow and wide across Zevran’s face.

“ _Mi isabela,_ let me tell you about my family.”

* * *

They gathered before dawn, on the downriver side of Arlstoll Bridge. There was a barge waiting to take them to Hafterport and Isabela.

Alistair took a deep breath of chilled air. Seheron. He was going to the other side of the world, past Qunari and Magisters and pirates and weeks at sea. And then his father, alive or dead. He wasn’t sure which one he dreaded more.

Headcount. One final time before they set out.

Himself. Nathaniel, Anders. Lockhard and Andreas. The Wardens Andreas had chosen for his field team – Dove Calman, Monroe Ramsey, Viktory Arendt, Ilya Kir, Vlas Makari, Grisha and Bell Mackay. Two of the newest Wardens, Mahendra Arainai and Irina Trevelyan. Avrodiy Trevelyan and Kitt Funke, pledged to the Wardens but still acting as Templars. They’d start getting off lyrium on the trip back. Kallian and Fenris. Marian Hawke and the mabari Rabbit.

Twenty people. That was enough for four or five splinter parties, depending on situational need. Hopefully it would be enough. It had to be enough.

It would be enough. They were going to fight a Magister and his people, and they had two Templars, three people who’d made a partial career out of fighting Tevene mages, an ex-Crow, and the majority of them were Wardens. The only person with no true combat experience headed out was Irina Trevelyan, and she’d be getting martial training on the way to help her with being the other mages’ backup.

They’d been outfitted. All weapons inspected and supplemented. Mahendra had enough arrows and knives for three, and every mage staff had a bladed end for melee. Armor repaired or replaced – the mages were wearing the new design Anders had argued out with Wade, with more silverite and hardened leather than the standard Warden mage armor. They had provisions. They had two fully tricked-out healer’s kits, again to Anders’s specifications; plus assorted potions and poultices. Merrill had written up multiple copies of the instructions for suborning blood thralldom. Viktory had extra information about fighting with blood magic; Anders, Merrill’s observations on blood magic and the physical body.

They were as ready as they were going to be. The only possible way they could improve would be by having Merrill and more Blight veterans along; and none of them could or would.

They could do this. They were _going_ to do this.

It wasn’t just them awake and present. Sasha Winsome and Avexis had come out to say goodbye to the Trevelyans. All the Voshai were in a little knot by themselves. Merrill was fussing over Marian. Theron was going around to each person on the mission and giving a few words.

 _“Tell him,”_ Zevran hissed as he passed by on his way to bid farewell to Mahendra.

They’d had that conversation the night before; or rather Zevran had grabbed him in the middle of pre-last-minute worrying to insist that Alistair tell Theron about his feelings to the point that Alistair had been able to sleep solely on the grounds that he couldn’t listen to him then.

Because Zevran wasn’t _wrong._ The mission might fail. They might all die, or get captured. There could be a storm at sea. So many things could happen that would mean he wouldn’t be coming back. That the approaching moment as Theron finished his pre-departure private words with Nathaniel and Anders, leaving only him, could be the last time they ever spoke in this life.

The morning air was chilled, just enough that mist had formed over the river but not enough that his breath fogged now. Theron was walking towards him, and this could be the _last time._

Alistair didn’t know if he could call him beautiful. He wanted to. Theron had the grace of a person who knew their body and the build of a front-lines warrior. There was strength there that might outmatch his own muscle – Alistair didn’t know, they’d never competed like that. It outmatched him in every other way, for sure. The understated optimism about other people’s characters despite everything, that brought people like Zevran and Oghren into better versions of themselves. The quiet surety of self that had never once been caught and held, no matter how many times he found himself waking in the Fade. The unmatched memory, that held thousands of years of history as easily as it did little details that would add up to cherished and appreciated gifts later. The steadfast heart that would stand firm for others when they faltered or quailed. The unjudging compassion for those he held close. Even his rage, badly-contained. It was a wild strength and a raw beauty in contrast to his steady times, but no less heartfelt.

Maybe it was aesthetic preference maybe it was prejudice maybe it was familiarity maybe it was because the sight of this face made Alistair think of all the other things, but Theron stepped close enough to take his hands and he _was_ beautiful. Dark brown hair, growing longer again, partially held back for the moment in braids. Eyes darker still, with all the richness of a new-plowed field. Strong black sweeps of _vallas’lin_ across high cheekbones and familiar skin. The subtle angles of brow and mouth that made the air of resting melancholy, the long face, his natural gravitas.

“Be safe, Alistair,” Theron said, and reached up to cup his cheek. Alistair could do nothing but close his eyes and press into it. If he were Dalish, Theron’s hand would be resting on his _vallas’lin_ – an intimacy unsurpassed, to bring loving touch to bear on such a personal spiritual declaration.

It didn’t mean the same, for Theron to touch his unmarked human face. But if he slipped just a bit down and over, the pad of his thumb would rest on Alistair’s lips.

_Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me_

“Can I have a blessing, Hahren?” was the closest he could come. Theron cradled his face, whispering El’vhen against the center of his forehead, and Alistair breathed in his warmth.

 _“_ -Ghilan’nain mark your path, and Falon’din walk you safely wherever you go,” were the final words of the benediction, sealed with the gentle press of lips against his brow.

Theron held him there a few moments, neither of them wanting to move.

But Alistair had the strength to pull away and call everyone to the barge, tell it to cast off, drift down the river towards Haftersport and the sea, because knew he was coming home.

There was no other way. Theron was waiting for him.


End file.
